Albion In Flames
by Lady Eleanor Boleyn
Summary: Albion, 1536. Queen Anne and King James have reigned together in peace for over a decade. Their daughters are now women, and the Succession seems assured. But the proud Lady Arabella has no intention of letting her sister succeed unopposed. When tragedy strikes, will the legacy the monarchs of Albion fought so hard to uphold survive? Or will it go up in flames?
1. Chapter 1

_A word of warning. This is the sequel to my previous story in my Matriarchy Universe, **Lionesses Regnant. **Please read that first or this will make no sense at all! _

_**Lisbon, 1536**_

"So, we're agreed. Lady Arabella will marry Your Majesty's youngest brother the summer after her sixteenth birthday," Anne stretched languidly in the window seat and beamed across at the Portuguese Queen.

Queen Isabel nodded, "Indeed. I am delighted, Cousin Anne, to know that our countries are re-establishing their traditional alliance at last."

"As am I," Anne replied, reaching out to touch the other woman's hand. She knew she was acting with startling informality, but then, this wasn't a formal state banquet. They'd have one of those tomorrow, when Arabella had formally been betrothed to Lord Charles. This was just a chance for the two Queens – and their Consorts – to get to know each other.

For all her regal training, Anne was struggling to hide her impatience to have the ceremony over with. She'd be mightily relieved to have her second daughter's future assured at last. It had been up in the air for far too long. Arabella was already of age and most second daughters were either betrothed long before that or earmarked to enter the Church. The matter of Arabella's marriage had been a most ticklish one, however. Her husband had to be high-ranking enough to be worthy of her as a daughter of Albion, but not powerful enough that, should either of them get any ideas in their heads about pressing her claim to the throne of Scotland, they would actually have enough might behind them to suit their actions to the word.

It had been a difficult yet crucial balance to strike, especially given the difficulties Rachel and David seemed to be having filling the nursery at Ludlow. It was six years since they'd begun to live together as husband and wife, yet they had only one child to show for their efforts. One miscarriage, two stillbirths and a single living child. A girl, thankfully, albeit not the healthiest.

Anne cut that gloomy train of thought off before it could go any further. Whatever the state of her granddaughter's health, she was alive and Rachel and David were still young. They had plenty of time to provide little Elizabeth with a sister or two.

Suddenly painfully aware that she'd been lost in thought for a shamefully long time, Anne turned back to the Portuguese Queen. Her lips parted as she prepared to say something, but she was interrupted by the entrance of their husbands.

The men were windblown and ruddy-cheeked with exercise, clearly sharing a merry joke, James's wiry arm slung jovially over Prince Francis's shoulders.

At the sight of the women, Prince Francis disengaged himself and came across to Anne, lifting her hand in his and saluting her fingers with a gentle kiss.

"Madam, as I promised, I bring your husband back to you in one piece. Indeed, I dare to say that we are worse off now that we ever were outdoors, for, though we have been in the sun all day, we are only dazzled now. Your beauty is ten times greater than any sun's light could ever be."

Anne scoffed lightly, chuckling, "For shame, Your Highness! You would seek to charm me so in both my husband's presence and that of your wife?"

"Ah, but _ma reine_ , my sweet Isabelle knows that we French cannot control our passions for any beautiful women. And surely your husband can only be pleased to hear such compliments being paid to Your Grace, knowing as he does that he himself is the man lucky enough to be your husband," Francis breathed back, before straightening up with laughter in his eyes and crossing the room to salute his wife. James raised an eyebrow at his back and kissed Anne's cheek before flinging himself down beside her on the divan.

"You look like you've had a good run," she commented and he nodded.

"You'd have loved it. The woods are simply thick with game around here."

"Once the treaty's concluded tomorrow, I'll make sure I come out with you before we leave," Anne promised and James smiled at her.

"You do that."

Their tender moment was broken as Queen Isabel leaned towards James.

"No doubt, Sire, you are in need of some refreshment after the gruelling hunt my Francis tells me he took you on today. I must insist you try this, both of you." Queen Isabel clicked her fingers for a maid as she spoke, and the young girl handed Anne and James cups of a rich, dark, faintly steaming liquid, "It's chocolate, brought over by our explorers to the New World."

Anne sniffed hers experimentally. Bitter, but not unpleasantly so.

She raised her goblet in answer to Queen Isabel's toast, "To our countries!" and took a draught.

Leaning back against her husband, she began to relax, but then the breath shortened in her throat. That didn't feel right.

"Anne?" James turned to look at his wife as the conversation lulled and he suddenly realised she was wheezing, "Are you all right?"

Even as he watched, her beautiful slender neck, one of her finest features, began to swell. Her face turned blue and then purple as she struggled for air. The goblet she still held slipped from her hand, upending its contents and staining her lavish cobalt blue gown irreparably as she clawed at her skin, trying to get some relief from the horrible rash that was spreading rapidly across her face and neck.

"Anne!" James bellowed, pulling her down into his lap and fumbling with her stomacher, not caring that it was completely against protocol. All he cared about was giving his wife a chance to breathe more freely.

So far, Queen Isabel and Prince Francis had done nothing but watch, frozen in horror. At James's bellow, however, Prince Francis leapt to his feet.

"I'll get a physician!" he shouted over his shoulder as he threw the door open and thundered from the room.

"Hurry!" Isabel shrieked after him, "For the love of God, hurry!"

James was grateful to the Prince for trying, but it was too late. He knew it was too late. He didn't know how he knew, but he did. The very marrow of his bones was telling him that there was nothing more they could do for Anne.

He wasn't going to let her see that, though. Adjusting her thrashing body in his arms so that he could hold her better, he began crooning sweet nothings to her, as he had done countless times before when she had woken from a nightmare and sought his comfort.

"Hang in there, darling. You'll be all right. Prince Francis is getting help. You'll be all right. Do you hear me, Anne? Just relax. I've got you. It's going to be fine. I've got you. I've got you."

At last, she stilled in his arms. Her eyes focused.

"James," she croaked, "I'm going to see Cecily, aren't I?"

Tears burned in James's eyes. In that instant, his world shrank down to contain nothing but the two of them.

Somehow, he found the strength to nod and tighten his arms around her, _"You are, my heart. You are. And she's going to be so pleased to see her mother. So pleased."_

He pressed his lips to hers, sealing all he could never say into that single action. Even as he did so, the death rattle sounded in her throat. Her laughing dark eyes drifted shut, never to open again.

James pulled her up into a sitting position, leaning her against him. He buried his face in her ebony hair and inhaled her scent for the last time. By pure strength of will, he managed to restrain his tears from falling until Anne's laboured breathing had ceased forever.


	2. Chapter 2

_Wonders never cease, but I have actually managed to write half a chapter for this story in the past day or so. In celebration, you're all getting chapter 2! I will try not to make it a year before I update again!_

 _ **Melrose Abbey**_

It was the voices Rachel swore she would remember forever. Not so much the words, though, in truth, those too were branded indelibly into her mind, but the tones in which the Wardeness General of the Northern Marches delivered her message. They would haunt Rachel for the rest of her life, echoing in her nightmares from that day forth. Funereal tones.

"I deeply regret to tell you, Your Highness, that Her Majesty the Queen is dead."

It was as if the colour had leeched out of Rachel's world. Her throat closed and she had to fight to keep breathing as the blood drained from her cheeks. She scarcely heard the older woman's words as the Wardeness continued, "An allergic reaction to a strange new drink the Portuguese are fond of. Your Highness will no doubt be pleased to know that your lady mother wasn't alone. Your father was with her. The report says Her Majesty died in His Grace's arms and the end was mercifully quick."

"What does it matter how quick the end was? My mother is still dead!"

The words were out before Rachel had even fully realised that they had taken root in her mind. There were gasps at her uncharacteristically blunt words and she fought to bring her spiking temper back under control.

"What of my lord father the King?" she asked, her eyes roving the hall, instinctively seeking her Consort and greatest champion, David.

But David wasn't there. He'd stayed behind at Ludlow with Beth when she'd come north to Melrose to act as Regent in their parents' absence. It had seemed a good idea at the time, one of them staying behind to personify royal rule in the Marches and pacify the fractious Welsh. Now, however, she regretted it. She regretted it like she'd never regretted anything in her life. In the current moment in time, she wanted nothing more than to have her beloved husband at her side.

"His Majesty is making preparations to have Her Grace's body brought home for burial, My Lady. He asks that Your Highness arrange requiem masses for your mother and ride south to gather your Privy Council and begin to look to your own coronation as Queen of England in the meantime. His Grace feels that England will need her leader during this time of crisis."

"Of course," Rachel nodded abruptly, "I'll see to it."

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she noted that her voice was surprisingly calm. She'd never imagined she'd be this calm when she heard of her mother's death.

She pushed herself up on the arms of her throne. For a split-second, she stood, peering out over a sea of courtiers.

"Long live the Queen! The Queen is dead, long live the Queen!"

A single voice rang through the silent hall. The words echoed heavily, ringing in everyone's ears. The scene seemed to freeze for a moment, and then, as one, the courtiers blinked and sank to their knees, paying Rachel more respect than they ever had before.

Several instants passed. The breath caught in Rachel's throat. A wave of emotion welled within her and she had to swing on her heel and force her way out of the room to hide it. She heard the consternation swell in a cacophony behind her, but was out in the cloisters before anyone could stop her.

Breathing heavily, she struggled with herself, then raised her head, closing her eyes to feel the sun on her face. She was almost astonished to realise the summer's day was still as glorious as it had been half an hour earlier.

Her heart stopped. How could she have forgotten? She'd been invested as Crown Princess of Albion here.

For a moment, it was as though she was back there, in the midst of that ceremony. She could hear the halboys as they blared in her honour. She could smell the climbing roses as they wound their way around the pillars forming the arches of the cloisters. She could see Alexander and Dickon in their rich velvet doublets as they escorted her down the passage. Their parents, standing at one end, waiting for them with solemn looks on their faces and hidden pride in their eyes. Feel her heart pounding in her chest so hard she half-feared it might break. Sense the quivering of words on her lips as she prayed to God, the Virgin and all the saints she knew that the ceremony would go off without a hitch, that she wouldn't make a mistake. She remembered the weight of responsibility that she had sensed settling over her shoulders as Mama nestled her golden circlet in her dark hair and Papa handed her the half-size sceptre and orb that signified her new status.

"Your Highness?"

Rachel turned as a tentative voice broke into her reverie. Her half-sister Eleanor Rose stood behind her.

Several moments passed as Rachel struggled with herself. What should she do? She knew only too well that her mother had never approved of her friendship with the younger of her half-sisters. Allowing Nora to comfort her would be tantamount to doing her mother's memory a disservice. On the other hand, there were few people Rachel trusted more than Eleanor.

In the end, her longing for comfort won out over her desire to honour her mother's memory. She stepped towards Eleanor.

"I swore allegiance to my parents here, Nora," she whispered, "It was just over there, on the other side of the cloister. I swore to do what I could to rule Albion well when my turn came and they fitted a coronet on to my head. They named me Crown Princess of Albion that day."

"I'm sure you were a beautiful child," Nora murmured in response, resting a daring, caring hand on Rachel's shoulder.

They stood like that until Rachel's river of tears had dried up at last.

* * *

The candles flickered, casting long, dancing shadows in the corners of the chapel and over the reclining Queen's wig of hair. The shadows added depth to her wig, making it appear as though her ebony hair was as rich as it had ever been. As alive as it had ever been.

" _The Portuguese craftswomen know their work. If – If I didn't know, I might even think she was merely sleeping."_

The thought drifted through James's head as he looked down upon his wife's bier. He couldn't stop himself from reaching out to trail a hand down the figure's cheek, almost starting when cold, forbidding wax met his fingertips instead of warm, loving flesh.

"Oh, sweetheart," The words came, unbidden and broken, from James's lips. He screwed his eyes shut against a fresh wave of tears, his hand clenching at his side, "What did we do to deserve this? You should have had years ahead of you yet; years. We should have grown old together, watched our families grow. You should have died in your bed at home, Rachel, Elizabeth, Arabella and Bessie at your side. I shouldn't be standing here, in a foreign chapel, wondering how on Earth we came to this."

His throat closed and he couldn't bring himself to continue. Choking back a howl of grief, he sank to his knees, sending a wordless prayer up to the Almighty. Was it a prayer for Anne's soul? A plea for guidance as to how he was to go on, now that he'd lost his wife, his dearest love, his Queen? If anyone had interrupted him, in that moment, and asked, James wouldn't have been able to say.

Whichever it was, however, when James rose again, nearly an hour later, shaking out his legs to rid them of their stiffness, he was calm, his mind clear.

He would take Anne home. He would take her home on the earliest possible tide and bury her at Glastonbury, like she'd once asked him to ensure she would be if she ever died before him. And he'd have Cecily taken up from her resting place at Leicester and brought to lie beside her mother. It was what Anne would have wanted. She'd been talking about having Cecily reinterred and turning Glastonbury into the new royal mausoleum for years.

Impulsively, he drew his sword. Holding it up, blade downward, so that the hilt formed a cross, he kissed the cross-guard, then laid the weapon briefly in Anne's embalmed lap.

"It will be done, sweetheart," he vowed, "I swear to you, it will be done exactly as you would wish."

Filled with new purpose, he sheathed his sword, crossed himself and turned to leave the chapel.

"Your Majesty!" A Portuguese page ran up to him as he exited the sacred space, "Queen Isabel would like to see you."

Irritation flared in James. What did the silly girl want now? She'd been trying to persuade him to delay his departure for days now; said he couldn't be thinking clearly because of his grief, but she was wrong. His mind had never been clearer.

Ignoring the servant, he swept past, his shoulders set. He'd tarried here long enough. It was time to go home.


	3. Chapter 3

"My Lady, please! Think what you do!"

"What on earth is that supposed to mean, Aunt Sybil? Arabella is my sister! Who else could I ask to sit as Head of the Scottish Council while I go south?"

"Myself or perhaps Lady Melrose. Someone like that. Anyone but the Lady Arabella!"

"What have you got against her?" Rachel whirled on Sybil, exasperated beyond words at her godmother's truculence, "This isn't like you, Aunt Sybil! I've never known you hold a grudge against anyone!"

" _No, but then Lady Arabella isn't like other girls of her age. She's a bitter little thing, bitter in a way I've never seen!"_

Sybil wanted to scream the words at Rachel, to shake her for always, always seeing the best in people, even when they didn't deserve it. God knows her mother had never been so trusting. But she knew that kind of behaviour wouldn't solve anything, and besides, though Rachel loved her like an aunt, their relationship was different to the one Sybil had shared with Anne. She couldn't challenge the new Queen in the same way that she had once challenged the old one. Thus, she bit her tongue on the words she truly wanted to say and contented herself with, "Your sister is young and untested. She's never wielded power in her life. And now you want to hand the Scottish Council over to her, without so much as a warning? I don't think that's wise."

"Arabella is fourteen! I was ruling Wales at fourteen! Besides, we're talking about a matter of weeks, until Papa gets home. How much damage can Arabella do within a few weeks?"

Rachel exhaled, running a hand through her hair impatiently, as her father so often did. In that moment, Nora Rose stepped forward, one hand stretched out placatingly.

"Your Grace. I don't pretend to understand Lady Suffolk's misgivings against the Lady Arabella, but then I have never spent much time at Court. One thing I do know, however. Lady Suffolk was a trusted member of your mother's Court, one of her closest friends. Surely, if Her Grace is loath to grant Your Majesty's sister the power you feel Her Highness deserves to be tried with, she must have a reason for it. Surely, she ought to be heeded, even if her reasons seem murky to us? Perhaps we could come to a compromise. Name the Lady Arabella to the Scottish Council, by all means, but leave someone you trust here to guide her until your lord father returns. I can't speak for Lady Suffolk, but I know I, for one, would be happy to stay if you asked it of me."

Sybil was nodding vigorously at this suggestion, but Rachel wrenched away from her half-sister, scoffing.

"What? You'd have me proclaim to the world that my sister still needs a nursemaid? I think not!"

Hurt flashed in Nora's eyes as Rachel scorned her and, seeing it, the new Queen softened, "I know you mean well, Nora, but what you ask is impossible. And you, Aunt Sybil. Can you not see how my leaving a spokeswoman or handing the reins of the Council to someone else would be taken by Arabella? Especially if I left you behind, Nora. You know how much she scorns our friendship. She'd think I was doing it because I didn't trust her, and I can't have that. Not now. Not with Mama dead and Papa not here."

Sybil made to protest, but Rachel held up a hand, "You say she's young and impulsive. I don't deny that, but of course she is. Do you not realise why she's that way? It's because she's never been allowed to learn to rule the way I did. Mama and Papa have always been so much more protective of her than they were of me. But she's of age now. It's high time she learnt to take her place in my government. This will be a useful experience for her. Besides, Papa will be home in a matter of weeks. I ask you again, how much damage can Arabella do to Scotland in a matter of weeks?"

It was a question to which Rachel didn't expect an answer and both her companions knew it. The silence stretched out for a few moments before the dark-haired young woman nodded, "Good. That's settled then. Nora, you and I ride for London on the morrow. Make sure you have all you need, won't you? Aunt Sybil, I want you to go to Bristol and meet Papa there. Escort Mama's bier wherever he orders. And send word to the other Graces too. Mama ought to have her friends about her on her final journey."

Rachel's voice caught and she squeezed her eyes shut against a fresh wave of tears. Nora, forgetting, for a moment, where they were, reached out to touch her shoulder, seeking to reassure her. She froze as Rachel stiffened under her touch.

"My Lady?"

"You can't do that anymore, Nora. I'm Queen now. Everything has to be different. Everything."

Head high, Rachel swept from the room before her half-sister could reply.

* * *

"Her Majesty Queen Rachel would like to see you in her solar, My Lady Arabella," Janet Whitlaw cringed as she addressed her mistress, as well she might. No member of Arabella's household was in any doubt as to the Lady's feelings towards her elder sister. One could hardly say they were sororal. Indeed, so sour were they that, now that she was of age and her parents paid less attention to the intimate goings-on in her household, the Lady Arabella rarely allowed her sister's name to be so much as mentioned in her hearing. Given that, how would she react to this summons?

Fury surged in Arabella. How dare Rachel summon her, as though she was no more than a petitioner. She was her sister, not her subject! Uncharacteristically, however, she bit her tongue. This wasn't Janet's fault, after all, and why would she vent her ire on a helpless target, when, for once, she actually had her older sister within her reach? Saving her ire for Rachel would be far more satisfying.

Without a word, she rose, marked her place in her book and held it out for Janet to take. Janet scurried forward, too relieved to have avoided the usual storm to even think of protesting at how imperious the young woman was being.

Unhurried, Arabella reached for a brush that lay on a stool beside her, removed her hood and brushed her honey curls with long, lingering strokes. Only when they gleamed did she replace her hood and stroll to the door.

Rachel was waiting for her when she finished the short journey to her older sister's apartment, but, though the darker young woman held out a hand to her, Arabella didn't curtsy.

She heard Rachel's ladies inhale sharply at her bold behaviour, but held her ground. Rachel wasn't Queen of Scotland yet. She'd be damned if she'd follow the hem of her gown this side of the border. They were both Princesses here, no matter how much their lord father and lady mother might like to pretend otherwise.

There was an awkward silence.

"Have a seat," Rachel turned away, refusing to rise to the bait. Arabella took the proffered stool, triumphant. Rachel had never had a stomach for confrontation.

"I suppose there's no point in beating about the bush," Rachel motioned to a maid to pour two goblets of wine. She handed one to Arabella and sat back, "You know I'm riding south to speak to my Privy Council tomorrow."

As her older sister had said, this was hardly news and Arabella treated it as such, gulping her wine as she waited for Rachel to get to the point. Rachel raised an eyebrow.

"You're hardly rushing to assure me that your household will be ready to ride at dawn, are you, little sister?"

Arabella's lips parted in a sound of protest, but Rachel continued without so much as a heartbeat's pause, "But then, I suppose it doesn't matter. You're not coming with me anyway."

"What? Of course I'm coming with you! I'm your sister! Who deserves a more honoured place in your new realm – at your coronation, when the time comes - than I do?"

Arabella couldn't help herself. It wasn't fair! Just because Rachel was older, she got everything, while Arabella wasn't allowed anything – anything – that might be construed as a mark of favour from their parents. Yet she was their trueborn daughter! Rachel wasn't even Father's!

"You have a point," Rachel conceded, "But I need you to stay here. I'm naming you Head of the Scottish Council in my stead until Papa comes home."

Whatever Arabella had been expecting, it wasn't that. Her mouth fell open.

"You're naming me Head of the Scottish Council?"

"Of course. After all, as you just reminded us both, you're my sister. Who else could I name to the post?"

Rachel smiled and, despite herself, Arabella found herself returning the smile. Being Head of the Scottish Council, however temporarily, would be a thousand times better than any post she could have had by remaining at Rachel's side. It meant actual power, power like she'd never had before.

Taking advantage of the rare moment of concord between them, Rachel took her younger sister's hand.

"Some people warned me you were too young for this, Bella," she murmured, "They said you were too impulsive. But I stood against them because it didn't seem right to me that I should hand the reins of power to anyone but my sister, now that you're of age. So, I need you to prove your detractors wrong. Don't do anything impetuous, all right?"

Arabella hesitated. Who was Rachel to try to mother her like this? For a moment, she contemplated refusing to answer such a patronising request. But, in the end, the lure of having power of her own won out. She nodded.

"I knew I could count on you," Rachel murmured. She stood up and, for the first time in her life, Arabella fell easily into a curtsy to her. It seemed the least her sister deserved after granting her power of her own.

No sooner had Arabella left Rachel's rooms, however, than the younger girl felt sickened with herself. Why had she done that? Why had she fallen for Rachel's manipulations, again? The headship of the Scottish Council was hers by right; she had no need to be so craven in her gratitude for it. Had no need to show any gratitude for it at all, in fact.

If she was honest with herself, Arabella knew why she'd done it, though. It was because she couldn't decide how to feel about her older half-sister. Aunt Maggie said she ought to hate her, ought to resent her for accepting what was Arabella's birth right as her own just due. And most of the time, Arabella did. But every now and again, like this afternoon, Rachel would turn round and do something unexpectedly kind or generous and then she'd be confused again. Why did Rachel have to do that? Why couldn't she be harsh and imperious, like their parents had always been? It would make her own feelings towards her older sister so much easier.

"Damn her," she whispered under her breath, choking back tears of gall, "Why can't she make this easier for me?"

* * *

The rider burst into the courtyard, their sweat-lathered horse almost collapsing out from under them as they wrenched to a halt.

"The Queen!" They gasped, "I must see the Queen!"

"The Queen isn't here," The nearest guard laughed, blind to the stranger's distress, "Don't you know that?"

"The Lady Constable then! Whoever's in charge!"

"Calm yourself," A kindlier guard intervened, coming forward to take the messenger's reins as she looked around wildly, "As my colleague says, the Queen's not here. Her Majesty rode out soon after she heard of her mother's passing. She'll be halfway to London by now. But the Lady Arabella's in the Great Hall with the Council. I could take you to Her Highness, but you're hardly fit for an audience. Why don't you go and freshen up first and then -"

"There's no time for that!"

The rider flung herself from the saddle, dashing across the courtyard into the Abbey even before her horse had been led away. The guards stared after her in consternation. Indeed, they were so disquieted by her state of mind that they almost chased her down in case she was a madwoman. Only the livery collar she'd been wearing stopped them. It marked her out as one of Lady Northumberland's couriers. Thanks to their mistress's friendship with the late Queen Anne, Her Ladyship's couriers had the freedom of the realm and access to many of the most important people at Court, including the Lady Arabella.

"No doubt Her Highness will see the woman, in spite of her state," one of them murmured.

"Aye, Iain, that she will," The other answered, "But I fear a woman in such anguish cannot be bringing welcome tidings."


	4. Chapter 4

Stunned silence hung over Jedburgh's Great Hall. Arabella scarcely breathed. Her eyes were fixed on the messenger's face, their burning gaze so intent they seemed to want to enter the other woman's skull.

"You're saying my father is dead, Mistress Dacre?"

"With the deepest regret, I am, My Lady. His Majesty was escorting Queen Anne's body home from Lisbon when his ship went down in a summer storm off the Portuguese coast. Both His Grace's and Your Highness's lady mother's bodies are missing, I'm sad to say."

A low moan rippled round the room at Lady Dacre's words. Albion reeled. Both their beloved sovereigns were dead. Their beloved sovereigns were dead and they couldn't so much as bury them. How could God be so cruel?

Hearing the murmur of discontent, Mistress Dacre rushed on, "However, I do carry a message from Queen Isabel. She begs me to assure Your Highness – and the Court – that she has every hope of recovering your parents' bodies. Should that happen, Her Majesty will of course have them sent on to Albion with all due honour as soon as Her Grace can be sure of a spell of clement weather. Indeed, Queen Isabel also wishes to inform you, Lady Arabella, that she and Prince Francis both entreated your lord father to wait for better weather before he sailed himself. Their sea captains and astrologers knew the weather was ill-starred for such a momentous sailing and so Their Highnesses begged King James to stay until it cleared. Sadly, His Majesty was too determined to bring Queen Anne's body home. He wouldn't rest until they were both safe home, God rest his soul."

The ripple of grief rose to a crescendo, yet stilled as Arabella, stony-faced, held up a hand.

"I see. Thank you, Mistress Dacre. You have served Albion well by bringing us this news so promptly, grievous though it is. Go and bathe and rest. My Lady Chamberlain will ensure there is a bed and a hot meal waiting for you when you have need of it."

"Thank you, Lady Arabella."

Lady Dacre curtsied and withdrew. Arabella watched her go, then rose to her feet. There were whispers of shock at how calmly she was taking the news, but she ignored them.

"There will be Requiem Masses said for my lord father's soul in the Abbey Church this evening after Vespers."

Having nothing more to say, she left the hall, heedless of the gossip that instantly rushed in her wake.

Her older brother, Alexander, fell into step beside her halfway down the passage outside.

"You're very calm, Bella," he commented, "You handled that very well in there. Your behaviour was very queenly. Rachel wouldn't have taken the news half so well."

Arabella turned to him. Her eyes were blank, so blank, in fact, that even Alexander took a half-step backwards.

"That's as may be, Alex. But then, Rachel would have broken down with grief and mourning, especially with this coming so hard on the heels of our lady mother's death. But why, brother, would I mourn a man who has never loved me?"

* * *

 _1526_

" _Her Highness the Lady Arabella!"_

 _Arabella ran forward at the herald's call, her grey eyes bright._

" _Mama! Papa!" she chirped, her arms opening to invite Papa to hug her._

 _There was laughter behind her and her heart soared. The courtiers were pleased by her. That meant Papa would be pleased too. He was always telling them how important it was to please the people._

 _But, when she looked up at him, Papa wasn't smiling. Why wasn't he smiling? What had she done wrong now?_

" _Lady Arabella!" Lady Douglas's voice rang out in an angry hiss behind her. And then she remembered._

 _She'd forgotten to curtsy._

 _Her heart sank. She'd been so determined to be good, this time. This time when she'd finally been allowed to greet her parents publicly at Court, instead of in the privacy of the nursery like a baby!_

 _Tears burned in her eyes as she sank down, but she wouldn't let herself cry. She was a Princess. Aunt Maggie was always telling her so. Princesses didn't cry in public!_

 _She held her curtsy as still as she could, willing Papa to look down and see how graciously she could do it now, how much she'd grown since they'd last seen her._

 _James heard the indulgent laughter at Arabella's excitement and sighed inwardly. If the Court hadn't laughed, he could have let the moment pass. But now that they'd laughed, he couldn't. He couldn't risk them being charmed by Arabella, and encouraging her to push herself ahead of Rachel._

 _Not for the first time, he half-wished Arabella had been born a boy. It would have made their relationship so much easier._

 _Steeling himself, he looked over her bent golden head to Lady Douglas._

" _That will do, Lady Douglas. You may go. We'll speak later."_

" _As you wish, Your Grace. Madam. I am at your service," Lady Douglas curtsied and swept out of the room without a backward glance. James watched her go, then glanced down at Arabella, careful to keep his face blank._

" _It is a pleasure to see you, daughter," he greeted, waving her up, "Go and give your lady mother a kiss."_

 _Relieved – she'd been beginning to think Papa meant to keep her in her curtsy_ _ **forever**_ _\- Arabella scrambled up and over to her mother's side._

 _Mama was always softer than Papa. She accepted Arabella's kiss happily and gave her a little squeeze, "It's good to see you, darling," she whispered, before nudging her towards a padded stool at her feet, "Sit there."_

 _Arabella purred in response and nestled into Mama's skirts, inhaling her scent. Lavender and roses. Mama always smelled of lavender and roses._

 _The seconds stretched out and Arabella began to relax. Even Papa seemed to lose some of his hard edges. Arabella turned towards him nervously, reaching for him._

" _I'm sorry I forgot to curtsy, Papa," she whispered._

" _Hmm? What's that?" He leaned down towards her…and then the heralds blew on their trumpets again. Arabella, startled, jumped at the noise, then immediately pretended she hadn't. She was a big girl now. Only babies were scared of trumpets!_

" _Her Royal Highness, the Crown Princess of Albion!"_

 _Arabella watched intently as her older sister came down the hall. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen Rachel. She caught her breath. Rachel's dark hair was loose down her back and it swung into her face as she swept down into a curtsy._

" _My Lady Mother. My Lord Father. I am delighted to see you again," Rachel greeted Mama and Papa in a voice that almost sounded like she was singing, but Arabella hardly heard her. She was stunned to see Rachel spring straight back up again as Papa went towards her. Spring up and throw her arms around his neck. Arabella would never dare do that. Even at just four, she knew she was supposed to hold her curtsy until Papa let her rise. Rachel should know that too. She was a big girl of eleven!_

 _James hesitated as Rachel hugged him. She ought to know better than to be so casual with her parents in public. It was unbecoming of her age and her station. On the other hand, if he let it pass without comment, it would be seen as a mark of favour. No one would doubt which of the girls he preferred then. Besides, Lady Warwick was enough of a harridan about things like this anyway. Rachel would no doubt be punished enough by one of her tongue-lashings. He didn't have to make an already bad situation worse._

 _That in mind, he simply wrapped his arms around her and stroked her hair._

" _My beautiful girl," he greeted her, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear._

 _There was a ripple of pleasure at how fond the father and daughter were of each other and James was content. Things were as they should be, with Rachel charming her future subjects. Rachel, not Arabella._

 _The embrace over, he turned to face his wife with Rachel tucked snugly into the crook of his arm. He frowned as Arabella made no move to rise and curtsy to her older sister._

" _Aren't you going to curtsy to your older sister, Arabella?"_

 _His voice was sharper than he intended, so sharp in fact, that even Anne flinched. He bit down on his temper, but frowned at her before she could intervene. They'd had many a discussion about the necessity of having Arabella curtsy to Rachel. Anne, unused to the idea of there being strict formality in the royal nursery, had protested, but he'd insisted. The governesses' reports had already hinted at Arabella being far too wilful for his liking. The sooner she learnt to accept that Rachel took precedence over her, the better._

 _Something snapped in Arabella when she saw how Papa was cuddling Rachel. It wasn't fair! Rachel had broken Papa's rules, and yet she was being cuddled, when Arabella had done her best to be good and yet Papa didn't seem to care! It wasn't fair! It wasn't fair!_

" _No!" she screamed. "It's not fair! I won't! I won't!"_

 _James glared at his younger daughter. Why did she always have to make things so difficult?"_

" _Arabella, do as I say, please," he said warningly. In answer, Arabella threw herself to the ground._

" _I won't! I won't! It's not fair! It's not fair! I won't!"_

 _In another instant, Papa's patience ran out. He let go of Rachel and pounced on her, snatching her up from the ground easily even though she made herself go limp. He glanced at Mama._

" _Excuse us, Anne, Rachel. Arabella is clearly too tired to be anywhere other than the nursery right now."_

 _Before either of them could say anything in return, he carried Arabella out._

" _I'm going to give you one more chance, Arabella," he hissed, when the doors had shut behind them, "Make your apologies to me for your deplorable behaviour and come back in and curtsy to Rachel and we'll forget this ever happened. One more protest, however and I'll make sure you regret it. Which is it to be?"_

 _An older child might have stopped to consider, but Arabella was too young and too angry to do anything other than react._

" _Why should I curtsy to Rachel? I'm a Princess too!"_

 _Papa froze at her words. Without a second thought, he slapped her across the face, heedless of the fact that someone had just come up behind them._

" _No, you are **not!** Who's been telling you that?" _

_If Arabella had told him, she might have saved herself her punishment, or some of it, at least. But, angry and too stubborn to want to please Papa just after he'd hit her, she simply jutted her chin out._

" _I'm not telling you!"_

 _James snarled under his breath, but he wasn't about to waste any more time on his wayward younger daughter. He thrust her at the nearest guard so hard the observer behind him couldn't stifle a gasp._

" _Take the Lady Arabella back to the nursery," he snarled, "She clearly can't behave as she ought to at Court, so she'll stay in the nursery until she can."_

" _Yes, Sire." The guard bowed, hefting Arabella up even as she thrashed. Why was she the only one getting punished? Rachel had broken Papa's rules too. It wasn't fair!_

" _No! No! It's not fair! It's not fair!"_

" _Tell Lady Douglas that the Lady Arabella has shown the most awful behaviour tonight and is to be punished accordingly." Papa spoke over her screams as though he couldn't even hear them._

" _The punishment chair, My Lord?"_

 _Arabella froze. 'The punishment chair'. She hated those words._

" _No! Papa, please, I'm sorry!" she begged, reaching for him._

" _The punishment chair, a whipping and bed with no supper. That ought to teach this saucy madam her proper place in the scheme of things."_

 _Arabella burst into tears. Why did Papa have to be so horrid? She'd said she was sorry!_

" _James, no! That's far too harsh. You've already slapped her; you've punished her enough! She's only little!" That was Aunt Maggie, speaking up for her as she always did. Papa whirled round, glaring at her champion._

" _I don't believe I asked for your opinion, Mistress Drummond. Take Her Highness away."_

 _Papa's face, hard with fury, was the last thing Arabella saw as she was carried off, kicking and screaming and sobbing._

 _As they reached the nursery, however, she slumped, exhausted. She already knew what Lady Douglas would say. She'd shake her head and smooth her voice with heavy disappointment and say, "Oh, honestly, Lady Arabella. What have you done now? Why can't you learn to behave? The Crown Princess was never so wilful." Arabella hated it when she did that. It wasn't fair! She wasn't Rachel, so why did she always have to behave like her?_

* * *

"I command the Drummond forces. You're Prince of Scotland. The only Prince of Scotland, whatever grand titles your _sainted_ father might have chosen to bestow upon David. Between us, we can muster enough men to lend Arabella credence if, as and when she raises her banners at Stirling." Margaret Drummond handed her eldest nephew a cup of hippocras, smiling at him. To her alarm, he didn't immediately take it, sending warning bells through her head, "It's worth a gamble, surely?" she said sharply, "Or are you telling me, Alexander, that you'd be happy to see Scotland cowed beneath the greedy fists of the Sassenach?"

Predictably, Alexander drew himself up, pride stung. "Of course not!" he snapped, snatching the goblet from her.

"Good. Then I'll leave writing the summons to you. I know the Gordons are with us, as are the Lindsays, the Beatons and the Sinclairs, but they'll answer to their Prince long before they answer to me."

Alexander nodded and snatched a quick gulp of wine and making a mental note to get on with the task the moment he left his aunt's company.

"And you're sure Arabella will play along? She won't balk at being used against her sister?" Aunt Margaret broke into his musings.

"You're the one who raised her to think of herself as a Princess," he retorted, before his face lit with leaping amusement, "But, to answer your question, no. If Bella's reaction to Father's death is anything to go by, she won't be balking any time soon. I'll wager she'd do anything we asked of her, if only to spite the old man's memory."

* * *

Stirling Castle loomed above the city, threatening seemingly invulnerable. Its grey walls were the thickest, most secure in the Scottish countryside.

They were also thick with memories for Arabella. Thick with unpleasant recollections of being second-best, of being shunted aside while her parents, her nurses, everyone in the entire blasted castle fawned over her raven-haired older sister.

But that was all over now. Everything changed tonight. Everything.

Fingers in her golden hair broke into Arabella's reverie and she glanced up to meet her Aunt Maggie's eyes in the mirror. She beamed.

"Ready, my Lady Princess?" the older woman whispered, as she arranged Arabella's tresses on her shoulders.

"My Lady Queen," Arabella corrected softly, her eyes betraying her glee for the briefest of instants, "My Lady Queen."

"Indeed," Aunt Maggie's lips quirked as she pulled Arabella's seat back for her and went around behind her to pick up her train, "Indeed."

The two of them descended the stairs to stand before the door of Stirling's Great Hall.

Through the door, Arabella could hear Alexander extolling her virtues. "She's the only true daughter of our late King James. Scottish blood runs in her veins, in a way it does not in Princess Rachel's. I tell you, my ladies, my lords. Scotland's independence, which I know we all cherish more than our own lives, would be safe in her hands."

Arabella steeled herself. Her hands clenched briefly into fists. She exhaled, forcing herself to flex her fingers.

" _I'm doing the right thing. Scotland is my birth right."_

Repeating that mantra in her head, she jerked her head at the guards. They threw the door open.

Time froze.

Every eye in the room flicked to Arabella. She returned the scrutiny steadily and raised her head a fraction. The arch of the doorway framed her; defined her. The new indigo taffeta gown she wore sent a three-fold message, none of which was lost on her audience.

 _I am young. I am strong. I am your future; your royal future._

Her grey eyes roved the room, fixing briefly on Alexander's face. He sent her an encouraging smile. She transferred her gaze to the rich velvet banner hanging above the dais. The banner of a crowned unicorn. The unicorn of Scotland.

She stepped into the room. Trumpets blared.

"I give you, Her Majesty Queen Arabella!"

Alexander's voice rang out above the crowd and Arabella couldn't stop her lips from curving into a smile. Bless her older brother. He'd ever been her champion.

* * *

 _1526_

" _Why do you have to challenge Papa so much, Arabella? He loves you, he doesn't want to have to be cross with you." Mama's hand ran over her blonde hair as she murmured softly to her._

 _Arabella kept her eyes tightly shut, pretending to be asleep. Part of her longed to open her eyes, to throw herself into Mama's arms the way Rachel had done with Papa earlier. To tell her mother everything and let her defend her the way Aunt Maggie did. But she couldn't. She couldn't bring herself to because it had been shameful enough when Papa had punished her. It would be even worse if her beloved Mama knew how badly she'd behaved, how harshly she'd had to be punished._

 _Anne wasn't fooled by her youngest daughter's behaviour. She knew Arabella wasn't asleep. But she'd never been any good at worming confidences out of people. And Arabella was the least trusting of her children._

 _Anne wasn't blind to her own part in moulding Arabella's character, either. She knew a lot of her difficulty connecting with her youngest stemmed from the first few months after Arabella's birth, when she'd been such a highly-strung little infant. She'd been so difficult to please. Just like Richard when he was little. It had brought back horrible memories. Memories Anne had been only too happy to repress by ignoring the howling baby and playing with the older children whenever she visited the nursery._

 _Sometimes, at moments like this, she regretted it. She'd missed so much of Arabella's early years. Too much. She'd never understand her youngest now. And that despite the fact that she'd intended to be such an affectionate mother to her to make up for the fact that she'd never have the throne of Scotland. The throne that some would doubtless say ought to be hers by right. But how could she have resisted James, when he'd been so determined that Arabella would never be like her own sister Mary? He'd suffered years of marriage to Mary, whereas she'd barely seen her younger sister since she was six or seven. He would have known Mary's character far better than she ever did._

 _Anne stopped that train of thought before it could go any further. There was no point in after all. She couldn't change things now. Powerful as she was, even she couldn't turn back time._

 _Sighing, she removed her hand from Arabella's head and stood. She dropped a light kiss on the child's forehead._

" _Good night, darling. Sleep well. Things will look better in the morning. I promise."_

 _As soon as her mother had left, Arabella rolled over, pulling a face. Mama was wrong. Things wouldn't look better in the morning. But how could she tell her that?_

" _Bella?" There was a whisper at the door and she sat up._

" _Alexander!" she cried joyfully._

" _Shh!" Her older brother put a finger to his lips, "We'll both be in trouble if they realise you're still awake."_

 _Nonetheless, he climbed into bed beside her and pulled her up into his arms. Arabella burrowed into him and inhaled his scent. Her tiny shoulders slumped and she began to cry, cry so hard her shoulders shook like branches in a gale._

" _Hush, Bella, hush. It's not your fault. It's not. I promise you, it's not."_

" _But Papa had me whipped and put in the punishment chair. I should have just done as I was told!"_

" _No, no. No, you shouldn't. You did the right thing. You shouldn't have to curtsy to Rachel. You're a Princess just as much as she is. "_

" _Papa punished me so much!"_

" _I know, I know. But that's his fault, not yours. He was so mean to you, not because you were naughty, but because he's scared."_

" _Scared? Papa, scared?" It was a new thought for Arabella and she pulled back from Alexander, staring at him. Surely Papa wouldn't be scared of anything. But Alexander nodded._

" _He is scared. He's scared people will like you more than Rachel, that they'll want you to be their Queen, like you should be. That's why he always punishes you so much and not her. He wants them to think she's perfect and you're bad. But she's not. She's not perfect and you're not bad. You're just as good as Rachel is. You're just as good as she is, and you ought to be Papa's Princess of Scotland."_

* * *

Suddenly, she bumped into the dais. Shaking her head slightly, she pulled herself from her memories. Aunt Maggie arranged her train, pooling it around her feet as she sat.

As her aunt stepped back, Arabella took in the crowd with its hushed, expectant faces. There were more there than she'd ever dared hope there would be.

"Her Majesty Queen Arabella!" Alexander repeated.

Silence reigned. Arabella held her breath.

All of a sudden, there was a rush of rasping steel. Men dropped to their knees, swords held high above their heads.

"Queen Arabella!" The cry seemed to echo from a thousand throats, "Queen Arabella! Queen Arabella!"


	5. Chapter 5

"You have a beautiful home here, Cousin," The young Abbot of Syon leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head.

His hostess arched an eyebrow, "Indeed. And I'd rather like to keep it that way, so have a care how you hold that cider, my Lord Abbot. I had these rushes swept not a week ago."

"Heavens above, I'd never spill this! It's the finest cider I've ever tasted! Breton, is it not?"

"It is, yes."

"Marvellous stuff. It tastes like liquid gold. We don't get nearly enough of this sort of quality at Syon."

The young Abbot took a deep draught of the cider and smacked his lips appreciatively. The woman opposite him did her best to look disapproving.

"I should hope not. Poverty, chastity and obedience. Weren't those the vows you took when you entered Holy Orders?"

"Well, yes… but I don't know what you're complaining about. It's hardly as though you stint yourself, My Lady Lancaster."

George glanced askance at Bessie as he spoke. Something passed between them and they both burst into gales of laughter. For a few long moments, the room rang with nothing more than their pealing merriment.

"Anyway," Bessie choked at last, wiping her eyes, "Pleasant as this interlude is, and delighted though I am to see you, I doubt you came here solely to wax lyrical about Kenilworth's myriad charms and the cider I choose to serve. What truly brings you here, little brother?"

"Don't be obtuse, Elizabeth," George cut his older cousin off with a withering look, "It doesn't suit you. You know why I'm here."

In an instant, all the levity was gone from Bessie's face. She jerked her head in what was supposed to be a nod.

"Arabella."

"I don't understand how she hopes to get away with it. Papa adopted Rachel in an inviolable ceremony. He invested her as Duchess of Rothesay as well as naming her Crown Princess of Albion. In all the ways that matter, she's his daughter. Scotland is hers by right. Arabella must know that."

"Does she? Does she really, George?" Bessie was too impatient to stay seated. Setting her glass down, she paced to the window, exhaling sharply.

"Well, of course she does! Mama and Papa never hid the fact that Rachel was the heiress to Albion!"

"No, George! They never hid the fact that Rachel was their _chosen_ heiress to Albion. Details I know, but as King James used to say…"

"The devil's in the details," George chorused. Bessie nodded.

"Aunt Anne and King James may have always treated Arabella as their second-born, but the fact remains that, by blood, if not in law, she's King James's firstborn daughter. There are bound to be at least some Scottish nobles who will ride for her because they feel she's been cheated out of her inheritance. And I've got to be honest, Aunt Anne and King James have brought this upon themselves."

"What do you mean?" George's voice drifted with confusion and Bessie spread her hands.

"You may not have realised. I don't know how much time you truly spent with Arabella when she was little. She was never treated the same way as the rest of us were. I was in and out of Court and the nursery all the time and I don't remember a single time she was ever singled out for praise. Aunt Anne loved her, yes, but, as you may have known, your mother wasn't marvellous with babies. She tended to leave the nursery to King James, particularly when Arabella was very young, and I think the only time he ever paid Arabella any attention at all was if she was naughty and needed to be punished. Did you know they used to keep a special chair in the nursery for Arabella to be put in if she was having a tantrum? It pinned her in at the waist and had notches out of the legs so that it would tip over and throw her to the floor when she wriggled. And I'm sure King James ordered her whipped when she was older, and had grown out of the chair."

George's jaw dropped, "None of us were ever treated like that! Ever!"

"Exactly! Now do you begin to see why Arabella might begin to resent her childhood?"

"Well…yes…But I still don't see what that has to do with her rebelling against Rachel and having herself proclaimed Queen of Scotland!"

"Don't you? You said yourself Aunt Anne and King James never stinted on any chance to underline that Rachel was to be heiress to both thrones. Arabella's not stupid. She'll have picked up pretty quickly that, were it not for King James having adopted Rachel before she was even thought of, she'd have been born the Duchess of Rothesay, the King of Scotland's cherished eldest daughter and the child of the woman he loved more than anything else in the world. Now, who do you suppose Arabella would resent most in that scenario?"

This time, the answer sprang, fully formed, from George's lips, "Rachel."

"Indeed. And let me ask you one more thing. Who was Arabella closest to, growing up? I know you didn't spend much time with her, but she was fairly obvious about it."

"Alexander. Alexander and Margaret Drummond."

Bessie paused, waiting for George to come to the realisation himself. A moment later, the penny dropped. He looked up at her in horror.

"But they hated Mama, and Rachel with her! They never liked the fact that Papa had married her and named Rachel his daughter! They're going to tear the country apart to spite Mama's memory, aren't they? And they'll use Arabella to do it!"

"That's what I fear, yes."

"How can she? How can she let them use her like this?"

George's voice rose in anguish. Bessie met his gaze, sapphire eyes cool.

"Because she, like them, has no reason to want to honour your parents' dreams of a united Albion."

Protest sprang to George's lips. Seeing it, Bessie held up a hand.

"I'm not saying they're right to, George. I'm not saying I don't believe Rachel has the right to be Queen of Scotland as well as England. I'm just saying I can see Arabella's position as well."

"But then, what do we do?" George looked to Bessie for guidance, as he had always looked to his older sister-cousin in the nursery. To his consternation, she ran a hand through her hair.

"I don't know."

"What? But you always have an answer to everything. Papa Henry always used to say that when we were little."

"Not this time. If I could judge Rachel's reaction, then maybe, but she can be so unpredictable…" Bessie trailed off, deep in thought, "I shall go to Lancaster," she said at last. "I shall go to Lancaster tomorrow and await Rachel's instructions there. Please God she comes up with something before this escalates too far."

"Do you think she'd be open to meeting with Arabella?"

"Possibly. If we could bring the two to terms… But that would mean convincing them both, and Alexander and Margaret Drummond that it was in the country's best interests, and that would require St Christopher himself to be on our side, I think," Bessie trailed off as she realised just how intently George was hanging on her every word, "If were you, little brother, I'd go back to Syon and try to keep your head down."

"But!" The knight in George balked. He was Rachel's older brother. Surely it was his duty to offer Rachel his sword if she needed it?

"You're an Abbot, George. You've sworn never to shed blood," Bessie reminded him gently.

"Do you truly think my sisters could go to war over this?" George blanched at the very idea.

"The crown of Scotland – and possibly even Albion – is a glittering prize," Bessie evaded George's question, but what she didn't say hung heavy in the air between them.

George chewed the inside of his cheek in the silence.

"Bessie?" he said at last, "I can't help but ask… I've heard rumours that Rachel isn't…well, that she isn't Papa Henry's daughter at all. Is it, is it true?"

"It doesn't matter, George!" Bessie returned sharply, "You're an Abbot, you know what canon law says. _"Mater semper certa est."_ By all the laws of inheritance, it doesn't matter who Rachel's father is, not as long as we know who her mother is. All that matters is that Aunt Anne's blood runs in her veins, and you'd never deny that, would you?"

"Of course not!" George's eyes went wide, "That would be treason!"

"Exactly. And you said it yourself, King James's adoption of Rachel was inviolate. It was signed and sealed before the Abbesses of Canterbury and St Andrews themselves. The highest spiritual authorities on either side of the border. So, if you and I cannot keep the peace between your sisters, we'll have no choice but to stand with Rachel, come what may."

Bessie saw the pain in George's eyes and spread her hands, "I don't say it lightly, little brother. You know I don't. I'm Arabella's godmother, for heaven's sake! But you also know I'm right. If it really does come to war, we'll have no choice but to stand with Rachel, even if we tear ourselves apart doing it."

There was nothing more to say. George sighed and got to his feet. He bowed over Bessie's hand without another word.

At the door, however, he whirled around.

"Why did they do it?" he blurted, "If they knew – or even suspected – what it would bring, why did Mama and Papa favour Rachel so much?"

Bessie exhaled, avoiding his eyes.

"I don't think they did," she said at last, "I don't think they did. But even if they had, I doubt they would have done anything differently. Their dream of a united Albion meant too much to them both for that. Besides, Aunt Anne was hardly unused to playing favourites. I should know."

George froze at Bessie's words. She ignored his horror-stricken look, keeping her eyes fixed on the tapestry before her until she heard his footsteps receding down the stairwell. Only then did she sink to her knees.

Anne's face swam in front of her eyes as though they'd parted only yesterday.

"Oh, Aunt Anne, why did you put George in the Church and not Arabella?" she cried, unable to help herself, "We'd be in a lot less trouble now if you'd raised your younger daughter to take Holy Orders!"

* * *

George paced his study, hands behind his back. His eyes roamed his shelves with their precious collection of holy texts and costly trinkets, but, for once, he didn't truly see them. In his mind, he was hundreds of miles away, pleading with Arabella to give up on this foolhardy venture of hers.

Her attempt to claim the Scottish throne was doomed to failure. Why couldn't she see that?

Groaning, George sank to his knees, head in his hands.

"Jesus, Lord of all, I beg You, guide me. How can I sit back and watch as my sisters rend the country asunder for their ambitions? I know I swore an oath upon Your Holy Cross that I would never shed blood, but surely there must be something I can do?"

" _Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God."_

He heard the words as clearly as though they had been spoken from six feet behind him. At once, his heart lightened. Of course! Why hadn't he thought of it before?!

Closing his eyes, he crossed himself and rose. He sent for his writing desk, quills and ink, then sat back and waited, crafting the missive in his mind as he did so.

 _To my well-beloved sister, Her Grace the Lady Arabella of Albion, from her cherished brother and mentor in all things spiritual, the Lord Abbot of Syon. I write to you with a heavy heart, beseeching you to tell me why you are acting in such an unfaithful and unsisterly manner towards our sovereign lady, Queen Rachel…"_

* * *

Baynard's Castle was one of the prettiest palaces in London, situated as it was on the bank above a wide sweep of the river Thames. Rachel had long since appropriated it as her primary residence when in London, much like her sister-cousin the Duchess of Lancaster had done with Coldharbour.

Normally, Baynard's Castle rang with merriment, but the day David rode in from Rhuddlan, its lavish walls echoed with shock.

David knew the yard was too quiet the moment he dismounted. His heart skipped a beat.

"Where's the Queen?" he shouted, throwing his reins at the nearest stable hand.

"In her bedchamber, Your Grace."

"Good. I'll go and find Her Majesty there. Make sure we're not disturbed."

"Very good, my Lord."

Whirling round, David pounded up the castle steps, heart in his mouth. This was wrong; severely wrong. The last he'd heard from Rachel was that her first meeting with her Privy Council had gone off without a hitch and that she hoped he and Beth were both well. She'd been talking of joining them in the Scottish Marches and investing their daughter with the titles of Duchess of Cornwall and Rothesay, with the title of Crown Princess to follow when she reached the age of reason. Based upon that, Baynard's Castle ought to be humming with celebration and triumph, even if they were mourning both Mama and Papa. Yet it wasn't.

Racing along the passage that led to Rachel's private rooms, David couldn't help but be relieved that he'd decided to leave little Beth to go north in the capable hands of her governesses and ride to London to escort Rachel to join her. Whatever had happened since he'd been travelling, Rachel would need him at her side. She might not have asked for him. She might not even have realised that she'd need him, but she would.

Lost in thought, he nearly crashed into Nora Rose, who was just coming out of Rachel's rooms. She started at the sight of him.

"My Lord, we weren't expecting you!"

Impatient, he raised her from her curtsy before she'd even properly begun it, "Nora. Is my wife in her rooms?"

"Her Majesty is indeed, Sir, yes."

David nodded and went to move past her, but Nora, unexpectedly daringly, caught at his sleeve.

"Between you and me, Your Highness," she breathed, so low that David had to strain to hear her, "The Queen will be pleased to see you. Her Grace is sorely in need of counsel."

"Why? What on Earth has happened? Has Rachel taken our lord father's death harder than we expected?"

Nora shook her head, "It's not that. But it's not my place to say, Your Grace. I'll let Her Royal Highness tell you."

She scurried away and David stepped into Rachel's rooms, holding up a hand to forestall the guard who would have announced him. Leaning against the doorframe, he watched his wife for a few seconds. The more he saw of her, the less he liked what he saw. Rachel was holding herself so tightly her movements were stilted. When her maids spoke to her, she scarcely seemed to respond. It was as if she was terrified that her self-control, so carefully cultivated, could snap at any moment. She was clearly operating in a state of deep shock.

"My dearest wife," he said at last, waving the maids away as he spoke.

Rachel spun round, eyes wide, "David?"

He bowed at the waist, "My Lady Queen."

"David! Oh, thank God, David!"

In an instant, she was in his arms, having flung herself at him so hard she nearly pulled him off balance. He barely straightened from his bow in time to catch her.

"Darling! What on earth's wrong?"

He knew they were breaking every rule of protocol in the book, but in that moment, he knew Rachel wouldn't take kindly to protocol. He stroked her back silently as she wept with relief, yet still struggled to find some semblance of composure.

"It's Arabella!" she cried at last, "She's proclaimed herself Queen of Scotland!"

David wrenched back, snatching Rachel by the shoulders in his shock, "What?! Are you sure?"

When Rachel nodded, he swore.


	6. Chapter 6

"My Lady, please! Surely Your Majesty must see that you cannot allow this defiance of you to stand! Your late parents made it clear throughout their reign that Your Royal Highness was to be considered their primary heiress, that you were to inherit both England and Scotland. Their Act of Midsummer 1522 declared it high treason to voice or act on an opinion contrary to that. By the terms of that act, Prince Alexander, Mistress Drummond and the Lady Arabella are traitors all. As are those who stand with them. For pity's sake, have proclamations sent out declaring them to be such and offering rewards for their capture."

"Did I hear you correctly, Lady Hastings? You'd have me declare my own sister – your royal Lady – a traitor? Impossible! I won't do it," Rachel shook her head, jaw set, "My parents would turn in their graves."

"Their Majesties…"

"Would understand why I cannot do what you ask of me, Ladies," Rachel cut off the protest before it had properly begun, "Need I remind you that my late mother was gracious enough to, in the face of my blood father's adultery, create the elder of my Rose half-sisters Baroness Rose of Blackheath and Chelsea, despite the fact that Lady Matilda's mother was an avowed betrayer of her Queen? She, I know, would not want to see me brand the Lady Arabella a traitor."

"That was different, Madam. The Lady Rose was an innocent child who took no part in either Mistress Sarah's or the Prince Consort's actions."

"So too is the Lady Arabella an innocent child!" Rachel snarled, mask of calm dropping for an instant. As her councillors flinched back, she exhaled, regaining control of herself, "You cannot tell me, Ladies, that a single one of you truly believes that Her Highness is acting of her own volition? No. I'll tell you who lies behind these actions of my sister's. It is Mistress Drummond and Prince Alexander. Their dislike of me is hardly a secret. They've always resented my unprecedented position as Crown Princess of Albion. No doubt they've persuaded my sister that our father was planning to change the Scottish Succession in her favour once our mother died. And who could blame the Lady Arabella for being taken in by their promises? What little girl does not, in her heart of hearts, dream of being a Queen? Besides, Her Highness adores them both, particularly Mistress Drummond. She'd never want to countenance the fact that her favourite aunt might be lying to her. So, you see, none of this is the Lady Arabella's fault. All we need to do is find a way of separating Her Highness from those who hold sway over her. Then she'd listen to reason, I'm sure of it."

David watched Rachel lay her reasoning for Alexander, Margaret and Arabella's actions before her council and admired how she did it. Gone was the shaken woman who had wept disconsolately in his arms not twenty-four hours earlier. With some food and a night's sleep in her armoury, Rachel looked every inch the poised young Queen. What's more, she was living up to the moniker the poets had once bestowed upon her as a child, 'The Princess of Peace'. She'd taken a council who were spitting nails at Arabella's audacity and persuaded them that, for now at least, words, not weapons, were the best way to proceed. David didn't think he'd ever been prouder of her.

He stayed in his seat beside hers at the head of the table as Rachel charged Lady Pembroke with sending an envoy to Arabella and then dismissed the Council. The ladies curtsied and filed out. Rachel was about to stand herself when he caught her hand.

"That was very well done, darling. Mama and Papa would have been very proud."

"Do you think so?" Rachel's voice was low, too low for anyone else to hear, "I'm glad you think so. I know I can't afford to admit it to anyone but you, but I'm groping in the dark here. I still can't wrap my head around the fact that we're in this mess. I meant what I said to Lady Hastings. Mama and Papa would be turning in their graves if they could see us now; could see that Arabella had risen in rebellion against me."

"If anyone can steer us safely out of this quagmire, it's you. After all, you've ruled Wales for seven years without a major mishap and God knows the Welsh are a proud, prickly people."

"Is that supposed to be a comment on our younger sister's character, or is it a compliment?" Rachel arched an eyebrow, but couldn't quite suppress a chuckle. She pushed back her chair and made to stand, bestowing a swift kiss to his cheek as she did so.

"Come to my bed tonight."

The words were out before David could stop them. Halfway out of the room, Rachel froze, slowly turning to stare at him. He'd never asked her that before. Their marriage wasn't like that. They didn't voice their desire for one another, even though they both knew full well it was mutual.

He shrugged, answering her unspoken question, "You have to admit it's been a while, darling. And besides, if Arabella truly is set on challenging you for the throne of Scotland, then surely, whoever's instigation she may be doing this at, the best way to thwart her ambitions is to ensure we secure the Succession for good by giving Beth a sister?"

The levity in his voice eased the tension in Rachel's shoulders and she smirked back at him.

"I suppose you're right, my Lord. Very well. I shall see you tonight. Now, I ought to go and talk to Lady Pembroke. She needs to know what terms I'm willing to offer Arabella if she surrenders."

"Don't let me keep you then. My Lady Queen," David bowed flamboyantly, as he had often done to make her laugh when they were children. It had the same effect now – he was rewarded by a bright peal of her merriment as the doors swung shut behind her.

* * *

Alexander recognised the Howard Griffin on the horse's caparison the moment he rode into the yard at Lithlingow and saw it standing there. His throat seized. What was a messenger of Rachel's doing here? It was far too early for them to be talking terms. Oh, Stirling and Lithlingow were theirs, yes, and he had high hopes of the Highlanders coming out for them, if they offered them the right incentives, but all the same, they needed to be in a much stronger position before Arabella tried to demand anything from her older sister.

Trying – but failing – to hide the alarm in his face, Alexander thundered up the stairs to Arabella's private apartments. His aunt Margaret met him as he burst out upon the landing.

"Oh, good. You're here. I was just coming to look for you. Her Majesty wants to see us both."

"What on earth is an English messenger doing here?"

"I don't know. No doubt they've brought terms from Queen Rachel, but Arabella insisted on meeting with Lady Glamorgan alone."

"Alone?" Alexander's eyebrows went up and he frowned at his aunt, "I thought we'd agreed that one of us would always be with Her Grace, at least until we can be sure that she will behave as is best. Her Majesty is so young and impressionable, after all."

Margaret spread her hands, "Her Majesty would have it no other way. And well, I could hardly disobey a royal command, could I?"

At his aunt's words, Alexander blew out his cheeks, "No," he said heavily, as he rapped on the door, "I suppose you couldn't."

No sooner had the last words left his mouth than Arabella bade them enter. The doors swung open.

"His Highness Prince Alexander and Mistress Drummond to see you, Your Majesty," Arabella's herald announced. The pair sank to their knees.

Arabella stood and came over to them. She studied them for a moment or two before offering them her hand to kiss.

"My dearest brother. And Aunt Maggie. How glad I am to see you both."

She raised them up and embraced them both, before signing for wine to be brought. Alexander and Margaret exchanged looks. Something had changed since Rachel's messenger had arrived. They'd never seen Arabella this imperious before. Not when they were alone, at least.

They said nothing, however. Indeed, they considered the change in the young woman's behaviour a positive development. The more regally Arabella acted, the more people would believe her claim.

"I received terms from England an hour ago," Arabella began, as the three of them withdrew to a window embrasure, cradling goblets, "Rachel claims that, if I strike my standards, disband my men and send the two of you south to be tried for sedition, she'll invest me as Duchess of Gloucester and Ross, as my parents always planned to do, with immediate effect, with the title of Princess of Ireland to follow on my sixteenth birthday. Oh, and she'll send word to the Portuguese and ask them to allow my betrothal to Lord Charles to stand despite the change in circumstances since the contract was first mooted."

Arabella's words fell like stones into the silence. Neither Alexander nor Margaret dared breathe. These were far more generous terms than they'd expected Rachel to offer. What would they do if Arabella decided to accept them? Without her to be their figurehead, their rebellion would collapse.

As if she could sense the shiver of fear that was travelling down their spines, Arabella moved to the table that stood in the centre of the room. She took up the parchment detailing Rachel's offered terms and held it out to them, "You want to know what I think of these, don't you?"

Before either of them could respond, she had ripped the parchment in two with a jagged tearing noise that reverberated around the stone walls of the chamber. Throwing the ruined fragments to the ground, she stamped on them, grinding in to them with her heel.

"Rachel treats me like a child who can be fobbed off with jewels and empty titles that don't mean anything. She doesn't even think I'm capable of coming up with anything this bold on my own. That's why she wants the two of you down South. She wants to separate us. She thinks it will take the sting out of my tail."

Arabella scoffed, tossing her bright head in disdain.

"That's why I called you both here. We need to discuss our next moves. I want to do something that will show Rachel that I'm not playing games, that will force her to take me seriously."

"Then we need to ride for Scone," Margaret said at once. She and Alexander had sat up late into the night, discussing what they thought Arabella's wisest course of action would be now. She was thrilled to see Arabella was willing to heed their council today. Sometimes, she would bridle at their advice, as Margaret supposed all fourteen-year-old girls just coming into their own power could do.

Even better, however, Alexander backed her up, using the kind of logic that Arabella could never resist, "Aunt Margaret's right, Bella. Every Scottish monarch since the dawn of our glorious nation has been crowned at Scone. If we go up there, it will lend your cause a legitimacy that Rachel will never be able to match."

Arabella's face lit up at the thought, "Then we must go at once. How soon can we ride?"

"First thing tomorrow," Margaret promised, "And when we get there, I'll swear on the Stone of Destiny itself that my brother always intended to invest the Scottish succession in your favour, that he only delayed because he knew how much he knew how much the idea of a united Albion meant to your mother and didn't want to break her heart."

The promise was an impulsive one, born of the heat of the moment, but as Arabella and Alexander gaped at her, scarcely able to believe their good fortune, Margaret knew she would have to keep her word.

"You'd do that for me?" Arabella breathed, "But everyone knows you can't lie in the presence of the Stone of Destiny."

"Exactly. You'd have all of Scotland behind you before the day was out."

Arabella's eyes gleamed.

"And then we'll ride for England. We'll secure Edinburgh and ride for England. My cousin the Duchess of Lancaster has always been good to me. She'll not stand in our way. We can sweep down through Lancaster, Coventry and Oxford and take London before Rachel even knows we're coming!"

The colour was high in Arabella's cheeks as her voice rang through the room. Margaret and Alexander exchanged a worried look. Ride for London? What was Arabella talking about? Their plan had only ever been to make her Queen of Scotland. With that, they stood a chance. If she insisted on fighting Rachel for England as well, they were doomed.

"Bella…" Alexander began. His younger sister tossed her head.

"Now, Alexander. You know that isn't how you address a Queen, much less a Queen twice over. I'll forgive you this time, but see you don't forget again."

There was a hard undercurrent to Arabella's jocular tone and Alexander gulped. "Madam, please," he begged, "Surely Your Grace must see that -"

"Must? Must? There you go again, Alexander. Take more care what you say. Must is not a word one uses to Princesses."

Arabella arched an eyebrow, but there was no mistaking the warning in her voice. Alexander swallowed hard.

"No, My Lady. But if I may… With all due respect… To stake a claim to the Crown of Albion at this juncture would be simply folly. It would alert your Grace's sister to our plans long before we were ready for her. I beg you, let us consolidate our position in Scotland before you seek to quarter your arms, as is of course your right."

There was a terrifying pause. Arabella tipped her head to one side, considering. Alexander held his breath. He didn't even know how they'd got themselves into this position. How long had Arabella been planning this without letting on?

"Very well," Arabella said at last, "We claim Scotland alone at Scone, and maybe even at Edinburgh. But mark my words, brother. When I ride into England, it will be to stake my claim to the throne of Albion."

Alexander's jaw dropped. Arabella shrugged, "Why should it not be mine? I have centuries of royal blood in my veins from both my mother and my father. Who was Rachel's father? Some jumped-up Welsh nobody who couldn't even keep himself faithful to his Queen, that's who. I'd make a far better Queen than Rachel ever would. Her very blood is tainted. Besides, I'm a warrior. I've had to fight for everything I call mine, whereas Rachel has never heard the word no in her life. She's never lost anything she truly holds dear. She'll never be able to stand against me; she'll crumble at the first sign of adversity. I vow to you, here and now, that Albion is and will be mine."

Arabella swept out of the room, her words hanging pregnant in the air behind her. Alexander turned to Margaret, flabbergasted, "Did you see this coming? What have we done that's got us here?"

To his horror, his aunt looked equally pale. She was staring at the door that Arabella had just vanished through as though she'd seen a ghost.

"We've taught the lioness her own strength," she whispered, "God help us, we've taught the lioness her own strength."

* * *

The sun glittered in the sky, sparkling off the copper in Margaret's hair and the emeralds and rubies in her cloth of silver gown. With a huge gilt cross in her right hand and a book of hours in her left, she looked every inch the pious, trustworthy gentlewoman.

The great and the good of Scotland, many simply there for curiosity's sake, watched with eager eyes as Margaret processed to the open-air altar upon which the Stone of Destiny lay.

Laying aside her book of hours and shifting the cross to her left hand, she laid her right hand flat upon the Stone and turned to face the crowd. For a moment, she seemed to hesitate, but when she took a breath and spoke, it was in a voice that rang over all their heads.

"By the Cross which I hold and upon which our Saviour died, and upon this, the stone which has ever formed Scotland's destiny, I, Margaret Drummond, sister to the late King James, hereby solemnly swear that my sainted brother once confided in me that he had long regretted adopting the Princess Rachel as his daughter and Duchess of Rothesay. His Majesty further confided in me that, were it solely up to him, he would invest the Scottish Succession in his only true daughter, the Princess Arabella. He swore to me upon the blood of St Andrew that the only thing that stayed his hand was the love he bore the late Queen Anne. His Majesty loved the late Queen Anne so much that, knowing how much her dream of a united Albion meant to her, he swore to hold his tongue during her lifetime, having no wish to break her heart. After Her Grace died, King James wrote to me, saying that he was coming home. He swore he was coming home to Scotland, not just to bury Queen Anne, but to change the Succession. Sadly, terrible mischance robbed my brother of his life before he could move to right the wrong done his only daughter. But it was in his mind. I know it was in his mind. I have writings to prove it. And so I say to you who are gathered here today, at this, our blessed nation's ancient seat of power, we ought to honour my brother's wishes. We ought to regard the Princess Arabella as our rightful Queen."

Pausing for breath, Margaret crossed herself and looked up to the heavens flamboyantly, "May God strike me down if I have spoken untruth!"

The crowd waited, holding its collective breath. But no lightning bolts descended from on high. The ground didn't open at Margaret's feet.

At length, the tense anticipation began to fade from the air. Before it could vanish entirely, however, Margaret seized the initiative. She thrust the cross into the air.

"Will you follow me, Scotland? Will you follow me in obeying your King?"

A deafening silence was her answer. The joyful gleam died in her eyes. She looked around in alarm. What was going on? She'd planned this to the hilt; ensured the majority of the nobles here were ones who had already pledged themselves to Arabella's cause. They should be screaming and cheering in wild joy, not staring at her in dumbfounded silence.

"Did you not hear me?" she demanded, "I said the late King James wished to see his daughter Arabella crowned his successor, not the Sassenach who is a cuckoo in our nest. Will you not stand with me and see his final wish made a reality?"

"If what you say is true, Mistress Drummond, then why did His Majesty adopt the Princess Rachel when he married Queen Anne? Ought he not to have waited, to see whether a true daughter would be born of their match, before naming the Howard heiress to stand in line to his throne?"

It was a lone voice, but to Margaret's shock, she saw several other heads nodding in response to it. Before she could say anything, a second followed the query up.

"Aye, adoption is sacred, we all know that well enough. King James would have known it too. Why would His Grace have set his seal to such a document, if he were only going to try to revoke it as soon as Queen Anne was dead? How could he even have been certain that he would outlive Her Grace of England?"

"Isn't it obvious? The man was run mad with desire for the English Jezebel!"

Margaret bit back a sigh of relief as George Gordon, brother to the Countess of Huntly, entered into the discussion. The Gordons were a powerful family who had always been uneasy about the union of England and Scotland, seeing it as a measure that might curtail their powers in the Border Marches. George Gordon could be counted upon to speak for Arabella – and to have the influence to sway others to her cause as well.

"Queen Anne, that greedy Sassenach, stipulated that the adoption of her daughter form part of the marriage contract. Our King, blessed be his memory, was made a fool of by love and desperation. He feared he'd never have a daughter, and saw the adoption of the Princess Rachel as his only option," George Gordon went on, speaking above the murmurs of the crowd, "I can't say I blame His Grace. Which of us here today has not been made a fool for love? But we have repented of our mistakes, and I say that our King of blessed memory should have the same chance. Queen Arabella is the only true daughter of the House of Stewart. Denying her right to the throne of Scotland makes a mockery of all we hold dear, of all our sainted Queens Margaret and Christina fought so hard to gain and keep. Are you, any of you, going to stand here, in front of the Stone of Destiny itself, and turn your backs on Arbroath?"

"Lord Gordon! We're not…" The speaker who countered Lord Gordon's impassioned speech, however, sounded far less sure than they would have done a few moments earlier. The young man cut the wavering words off scornfully.

"Yes, you are. All of you. That is what ceding Scotland to the clutches of Rachel of England amounts to."

George Gordon was breathing heavily. The crowd stared at him now, rather than at Margaret, but with more interest than condemnation. He whirled and threw himself to his knees.

"Mistress Drummond, I pledge my sword to the service of Queen Arabella, for I see striking a blow for Her Grace as striking a blow for Scotland's independence. And I think foul scorn of any man, woman or child who does not follow my example."

Margaret beamed down at Lord Gordon and helped him to his feet.

"I am delighted to hear it, Lord Gordon," she said gently, "Queen Arabella will be very pleased."

Strengthened by the young man at her side, she turned to face the crowd again.

"You have all heard Lord Gordon's view. Now, let me ask you this. Can we all agree that the Declaration of Arbroath, which named the Lady Christina Bruce our Queen, is a document sacred to our country and ought to be upheld at all costs?"

This time, the crowd nodded. That they could agree to.

"Can we all, secondly, agree that the Lady Arabella is, as Lord Gordon stated, the only true daughter of the House of Stewart, born with Scottish blood in her veins?"

Again, there were nods. No one was denying the Lady Arabella's parentage, after all, just her right to challenge her older sister to the throne.

"Then, if we can all agree on those two things, can you not see that crowning the Lady Arabella is only our duty as true, loyal Scots? Our sisters and mothers, fathers and brothers have fought and died to keep Scotland independent since time immemorial. This is not only about honouring my brother's final wishes. This is about what's best for our country. I beg you all to remember that, and hence to act in such a way as your consciences dictate."

Silence still greeted Margaret's words, but it was a far less ominous silence than the preceding one. Eventually, propelled by strategically-placed supporters of Arabella's cause, the crowd began to press forward. It wasn't quite cheering wildly, but neither was it rumbling ominously. Deciding that was the best she was going to get, Margaret scrambled down from her perch and hurried to join it. However little energy Arabella's cause might seem to have at the moment, at least it wasn't dying. If they moved quickly enough, they might be able to turn this into a success after all.


	7. Chapter 7

Rachel's council chamber was agog, every muscle in every body taut with anticipation. Lady Glamorgan was just back from Scotland and was due to give her report that morning. No one wanted to miss this first insight into the Lady Arabella's camp.

"Her Majesty Queen Rachel and His Highness the Prince Consort!"

At the herald's call, Rachel and David swept into the room arm in arm. The ladies of the Council sank into deep, obsequious curtsies, even deeper than they really needed to. Let Lady Arabella try to challenge the eldest Stewart-Howard daughter for the throne of Scotland. Just let her try. Here in England, they knew where their rightful allegiances lay.

Rachel seated herself and nodded to them to rise as David sat down beside her, leaning over to speak to Lady Pembroke.

"Has Lady Glamorgan returned?"

"Indeed she has, Madam. She's waiting outside, on Your Majesty's pleasure."

"Excellent. Bring her in. Let's see what my sister has to say."

Lady Pembroke signed to a waiting page and they scurried off. Moments later, Rachel's herald announced, "Lady Glamorgan!"

The woman who entered was a fine-boned woman of above-average height whose once chestnut hair was rapidly silvering, but whose green eyes still snapped with vitality.

She curtsied to Rachel and David, kissing both their hands in turn. Rachel beamed at her.

"Lady Glamorgan, welcome back to Court. I'm told you bring news from my sister, the Lady Arabella?"

"I do, My Lady Queen. But let me begin by saying that the Lady Arabella is nothing more than a prideful child, playing at grasping titles that are not really hers. Her temper is uncertain and she fairly bristles with overweening pride. She insists on being attended on bended knee at all times, and will not see or speak to anyone who does not address her with the deference due a Queen."

Discontent rippled through the room at Lady Glamorgan's words. How dare Arabella pretend such unlawful dignity? How dare she show such haughty pride? The late King and Queen must be fairly rolling in their graves!

Rachel, too, felt her hackles rise at the description of Arabella's bald pride, but she forced herself to remain calm. It wasn't Bella's fault, she reminded herself. She was only doing what Alexander and their Aunt Margaret had taught her.

"Be that as it may, Lady Glamorgan," she said coolly, cutting off the murmurs, "This report of yours doesn't help me yet. What of the terms I sent Arabella? Will she accept them or not?"

Lady Glamorgan opened her mouth, but before she could respond, the doors of the council chamber crashed open. A sweating messenger stood there.

"The Lady Arabella has had herself crowned at Scone!" she panted, "Her Highness has amassed a following and rides for Edinburgh to secure it with immediate effect. Word has it that if Edinburgh falls, she'll ride for the border after that."

* * *

"What do we do?" The doors had no sooner slammed behind Rachel, David and Nora than Rachel was turning anguished eyes upon her husband and half-sister, "I can't let this go. If Margaret and Alexander are pushing Arabella to invade England in a show of strength, then I have to be seen to respond. The nobles will stomach nothing less. But I can't order an army to muster against my own sister. God help me, but I can't."

Rachel sank into a chair, burying her head in her hands. David and Nora exchanged glances.

"No," David exhaled, "I don't think it's quite come to that yet. But you're right, you have to be seen to do something."

Pulling a piece of scrap parchment towards him, he made a few furious notes, then glanced up, "What do you think are the chances of Arabella listening to reason, if Bessie's the one to talk to her? With all due respect, darling, we all know Arabella was never particularly fond of you, but…"

"Bessie? She was certainly always around Arabella more than I was. I assumed Arabella was only trying to force me to take her seriously, that all she wanted was some of the real power that Mama and Papa never gave her. Given what we've just heard, perhaps I was wrong. Bessie might know her better, might know how to persuade her to come to terms."

"All right," David nodded, "As Duchess of Lancaster and Countess of Albany, it would make perfect sense to have Bessie negotiate on your behalf in the north. So, here's what I suggest. As Bessie and Beth are both currently in Lancashire, Bessie at Lancaster and Beth at Cockermouth, we'll send to Bessie, ask her to take Beth up into the borders, to Dunbar or Berwick or something. She can try and persuade Arabella to come to terms while she's up there."

Rachel's head snapped up, "You want to send our daughter into a country where our sister is in open rebellion against us, and by all the sounds of it, has amassed a sizeable following? Have you taken leave of your senses?!"

"Of course not!" David exclaimed, "I think sending Beth north makes perfect sense. She's the living proof that our parents' dream of a united Albion lives on. If she's tucked away in a castle in the Scottish borders, it might give some of the nobles who have yet to decide for Arabella pause for thought, perhaps even a cause to rally around. Meanwhile, you and I can go to Nottingham, so we can keep an eye on things and move easily depending upon where we end up being needed most. Or would you prefer Havering? I know how much you love that property."

Rachel didn't even hear David's question. She was too busy staring at him in utter shock.

"You're talking complete nonsense! Good God, did Mama and Papa teach you nothing of domestic security? Of course I'm not going to send my daughter into a country that's risen in rebellion against me. If anyone's going to go into Scotland, it's you! You're my Consort and High Steward of Albion. You're the one who should be negotiating with Arabella, not my cousin! As for our daughter, I'm writing to Bessie to ask her to bring Beth to London so I can invest her as Crown Princess of Albion as our parents did with me. And then I'm sending her to Wales. I don't want her anywhere near Scotland until we've sorted this mess out."

Before David could respond, Rachel whipped her head round to look at Nora.

"Nora. Your sister. Would she be willing to come to London and help me shore up the city's defences? Possibly even hold it in my name if need be?"

Nora's heart leaped at her half-sister's words. Without even pausing for breath, she flung herself at Rachel's feet.

"Oh, my Lady! You know she would!"

"Good. Send for her."

Already stung by Rachel's rebuke a few moments earlier, David couldn't restrain his horror at Rachel's suggestion that she rely on the elder of her Rose half-sisters to help her hold London.

"Rachel! Matilda's mother was a traitor to yours! How can you even _suggest_ asking her to help you shore up London's defences, let alone countenance leaving it in her hands if you have to?"

If David hadn't been Prince Consort, Nora would have torn into him for that. Everyone knew the late Queen had forgiven her mother for the lapse in judgement that had occurred in the months preceding Rachel's birth – the lapse that had resulted in both Matilda and, about fifteen months later, Nora herself. True, her mother had never been welcomed at Court again, but Queen Anne had allowed Matilda to succeed to their father's subsidiary titles of Baron Blackheath and Chelsea _and_ permitted Rachel to accept Nora into her household. Her Grace would never have done that if she'd been at all worried about the Rose loyalty to the Crown. And Mother had always emphasised how lucky they'd been; had raised both of them to know their duty to England and to the Howards in a way that she hadn't at seventeen. Neither Matilda nor Nora would ever have dreamed of putting so much as a toe out of line.

Yet David threw the circumstances of Nora's birth in her face at every chance he got. She knew why he did it as well. He'd always resented how close Nora was to her older half-sister. He was always trying to drive a wedge between them.

Fortunately, Rachel was in no mood to listen to him this time. She glared at her husband.

"You're the one who just suggested we send our daughter up into a country where loyalty to our banners has been compromised. I hardly think you have any right to question my decisions at the moment. Besides, Lady Rose knows only too well that she owes her title solely to my mother's good graces. She's the last person who would risk defying me. Moreover, as Baroness of Blackheath and Chelsea, she has clout in London that I, given my Welsh upbringing, simply do not yet have. You ought to know that."

Nora's heart leaped for joy as Rachel defended her older sister. She held her breath, only releasing it when Rachel glanced at her, "Go on, Nora. Go and write to your sister. I want her here as soon as possible so we can discuss matters."

Nora nodded, "Yes, Madam." She scurried to the door, but before she left, she turned back to Rachel and dropped into the deepest curtsy she could manage, holding it until her legs ached. Words simply weren't enough to express her gratitude.

* * *

Trumpets blared. Ponies whinnied, tossing their heads gaily. Wine flowed freely from every fountain in the city. Londoners crowded the streets in their thousands, all dressed in their best. On that glorious day in August 1536, it seemed as though every eye in the city was fixed on Matilda Rose, Baroness Rose of Blackheath and Chelsea as she knelt before Rachel on the steps of the Guildhall and placed her hands between the young Queen's in the age-old gesture of fealty.

"I, Lady Rose of Blackheath and Chelsea, do hereby pledge my allegiance to you, my sovereign lady, Queen Rachel of Albion, from this day until my last. May God and the Virgin strike me down if I so much as falter in my oath."

The clear young voice rang out over the heads of the crowd. Rachel nodded in acceptance, then released Matilda's hands and moved her own up to rest on Matilda's shoulders as she intoned the next part of the ceremony.

"By the power vested in me by Almighty God as the rightful Queen of Albion, I hereby name thee, Matilda Rose, Stewardess and Sheriff of the city of London, charging you to help me shore up the city's defences, and to hold it for me in my absence. To be my voice on the City Council, to lead the city according to my wishes, and, if necessary, and I should happen to be away, to defend it for me in a siege."

As the last words left her mouth, Rachel placed a heavy ring of keys in Matilda's hands. The ceremonial keys of London were usually in the Mayoress's keeping, but they were now to be Matilda's, as a symbol of her newly-created office.

Rachel then pulled her half-sister up and bestowed the kiss of peace upon her. As she did so, the late summer sunlight suddenly caught their heads, picking out the auburn lights in their hair. The two young women had never looked more like sisters than they did in that moment.

The Londoners cheered themselves hoarse, willing, just then, to forget their dubious thoughts over Matilda's heritage in favour of showing loyalty to their new Queen. They'd loved her mother throughout the two and half decades of her reign and now they would love her.

Two people, in particular, were watching the ceremony intently. Hidden in the depths of the crowd, Sarah Rose watched her eldest daughter kneel to Rachel with a heart so full she feared it might burst. This was what she'd always dreamed of. This was why she'd encouraged Nora to go to Ludlow all those years ago and earn the Crown Princess's trust. She'd always wanted her daughters to redeem the family honour that her teenage lapse in judgement had cost her over twenty years earlier. To see them take their places in their half-sister's household, serve her and work with her for the good of England. It was what Henry would have wanted, she told herself, as tears of pride began to well in her eyes. It was what Henry would have wanted.

On the other end of the spectrum, David watched the lavish ceremony from a place of honour at Rachel's side, but did so with severe misgivings. He still wasn't comfortable with his wife creating a position of such power for the young Baroness. He thought she'd only really done it to pander to Nora's vanity, despite what she'd said in public. Oh, it was one thing keeping Nora around for the sake of their dead father, but to actually give the Rose girls real power? When their very bloodline proved them frivolous and likely to listen to their hearts rather than their heads? He'd never understand her rationale there. Indeed, he'd protested it more than once, but Rachel, still smarting over his suggestion that they risk Beth's safety by sending her into Scotland, refused to listen to reason. Given her intransigence, all he'd been able to do was organise a glittering public ceremony for the event. Glittering public ceremonies were always a good way to shore up legitimacy. He'd learnt that much from their parents.

But now it was over and he was itching to get Rachel away. Despite their recent differences of opinion, she'd agreed to ride out of London with him to Havering and spend the night there in a public show of unity before he rode for Scotland and she returned to London to await Beth's arrival.

He leaned over to her, "It's time, darling."

Rachel gave an almost imperceptible nod and pulled away from Matilda. Her horse was brought round and she allowed David to boost her into the saddle.

As he mounted up himself, he flicked his eyes up to the banner that unfurled above his wife's head. Good. She'd followed his advice and quartered the Howard Griffin with the unicorn of Scotland as well as her own rising sun. In doing so, she was staking her own silent claim to Scotland. Let Arabella counter that gambit.

He flicked his hand to signal for their entourage to form up. Moments later, they were on their way, trotting down the street towards the gates of London.

"God Save and God Bless Queen Rachel!"

Matilda shouted it, impulsively, as her older sister and David rode away. David started. That hadn't been part of the plan. But, as first one voice, then two, then scores, took up the cry, he realised it ended the festivities on a perfect note. Glittering ceremony was one to underscore legitimacy, but popular acclaim was another. Rachel riding out of London amongst crowds screaming her name could only be good for her image.

Perhaps these Rose girls were good for something after all.


	8. Chapter 8

Bessie was sitting in the Great Hall at Lancaster Castle, hearing petitioners, when Rachel's orders reached her. Taking the scroll from the maid, she broke the seal depicting Rachel's private emblem of the rising sun and scanned the closely-packed lines of text, nodding in approval to herself as she finished them.

Taking little Beth to the safety of London and then Wales was a sound move, as was investing her with the title that had once been Rachel's. Not only did it take the precious little girl away from the danger area of the North, but it also countered Arabella's vaulting ambitions without doing so militarily, which, personally, Bessie considered all to the good.

Oh, she knew that, as Duchess of Lancaster and Rachel's cousin, her loyalties ought, by rights to lie firmly with the older Stewart-Howard daughter. But despite knowing that, she couldn't help but remember the little girl Arabella had once been. The little girl who had wanted nothing more than to please her parents, to be praised and acknowledged the way her older siblings, particularly her sister, were. Who had cried in Bessie's arms more than once when she'd been rebuffed, for reasons her childish mind could never have understood; reasons that went far deeper than a simple matter of incompatible personalities. Reasons that had to do with something Arabella could never have helped: her parents' histories, their childhoods and dreams.

If only for the sake of that desperately unhappy little girl, Bessie was loath to see Rachel wage war on Arabella, even though she knew the woman her youngest cousin had grown into deserved it for her treasonous behaviour.

Exhaling, Bessie waved the rest of the petitioners away. This might be her customary time for hearing audiences, but, given the circumstances, orders from London overrode custom.

Rachel might not explicitly say as much in her letter, but her nerves must be utterly on the raw. No doubt she'd not rest easy until her only child was safely in the capital. God only knew Bessie would be the same in her position.

Mind made up, Bessie sprang to her feet. She glanced at her secretary, Lady Catesby.

"Get word to Lady Stanley. Tell her to prepare the Princess's household for a hard ride to London. And tell the stables I ride for Cockermouth at dawn."

Lady Catesby nodded, "Of course, Madam." She turned to leave, before pausing, "I'm loath to say this, my Lady, but… do you want me to call out your banners? Princess Elizabeth is such a precious child. We wouldn't want any harm to come to Her Highness."

Already halfway out of the room by another door, Bessie froze mid-stride. Her heart stopped for an instant as she considered her secretary's low-voiced query. She hadn't thought of that. Did she want the Lancaster retainers forming up on her behalf, to help her protect the Princess, if it came to that?

A moment later, she shook her head, "No. I thank you for your concern, Lady Catesby, but let's not borrow trouble by acting too aggressively. Not before the Lady Arabella has even crossed into England, at any rate. Let's just focus on fetching Her Highness from Cockermouth and getting her to London safely."

If Lady Catesby had misgivings about Bessie's decision, she prudently kept them to herself. Time was of the essence, after all.

"Very good, Madam."

"And send someone to fetch my daughter Anne from the schoolroom. I need to speak to her before I go."

Without so much as looking round to see if Lady Catesby had acknowledged her last order, Bessie strode off, mind whirling. She was delighted Rachel trusted her enough to ask her to escort her goddaughter south, but it did mean she had a lot to do and very little time to do it in. It was just as well her eldest was such a sensible girl. She was going to have to step into Bessie's shoes in Lancaster for the time being. It was perhaps a little bit earlier than either of them had anticipated. Then again, Annie was about the same age she herself had been when Aunt Anne had sent her North for the first time, and she'd relished the experience. Annie might well do the same.

* * *

Lady Stanley and Lady Erskine would never have admitted it to anyone, but they exchanged a look of alarm when they read the Duchess of Lancaster's hastily scribbled note. Her Grace wrote of their having to prepare to ride for London with all speed. Her Grace had clearly never travelled any true distance with a child of so young an age. Otherwise she could never have written such a letter.

However much the Princess's governesses adored their charge, they would never have said she was an easy travelling companion. Princess Elizabeth was sickly and therefore fractious at the best of times. In the close confines of a litter or carriage, Her Highness's behaviour was often even worse. And at the moment, when she was both coming out of a heavy cold and teething…well, it didn't bear thinking about. Her Highness would most likely fidget, fuss and whine all the way to London and the Marches, especially since she was still too young to understand the need for haste.

And, Lady Stanley thought, who was to say that a push for speed wouldn't actually end up being detrimental to the Princess's already fragile health?

On the other hand, however, with all this worrying news coming out of Scotland, there was no doubt that the little girl did need to be kept safe. Taking her south was the best way to do that. Moreover, the idea of Princess Elizabeth becoming Crown Princess of Albion at just a year old was a glittering honour indeed.

Before either of them could voice or act on any of these thoughts, the Princess woke from her nap.

"Er'ee! Er'ee!" she shrieked imperiously. Her governesses exchanged another glance.

Although neither of them could see the Princess, they both knew that little Beth, as her parents called her, would be sitting up in her crib, stretching out her arms and straining to be picked up…but only by Lady Erskine. Her Highness could be very particular about who held her, especially when she'd just awoken.

"You go and tend to Her Highness, Jean," Lady Stanley sighed, "I'll go and order the maids to start packing."

* * *

Arabella reined her powerful dappled mount back within sight of the gates of Edinburgh. The October whistled past, surprisingly brisk, even for the time of year, so she turned up the collar of her cloak against it.

Despite the cold and wind, however, she wore no hood or veil, meaning her honey-gold tresses were whipping back from her face. She paid them no heed, her grey-blue eyes fixed on the great iron gates of the city as she willed them to open.

A moment or two passed. Eventually, her aunt rode up beside her.

"Don't fret, My – Majesty," she murmured, low enough for the wind to cover her words, should anyone be trying to listen in, "No one can resist Alexander when he puts his mind to it. Edinburgh will be ours, I promise."

Arabella held up a hand, "I'll believe it when I see it. Give the order."

Margaret nodded, took a speaking trumpet from the nearby captain of the guard and turned it up towards the battlements.

"Open up! In the name of Queen Arabella, open your gates!"

Several long seconds passed. Arabella kept her eyes fixed on the great iron gates, the colour draining from her cheeks with every passing second.

Suddenly, inch by inch, the gates began to creak open enough to allow a single rider to pass through.

Alexander galloped out, brandishing something that glinted in his hand as he brandished it above his head.

He was shouting, but it was only as he drew closer that Arabella was able to distinguish the words.

"The keys! I have the keys!"

A weight fell off Arabella's shoulders. As Alexander wrenched to a halt beside her and flung himself into the mud at her feet, she beamed down at him, jubilant.

"Edinburgh is yours, My Lady!" he panted, "Edinburgh is yours!"

"My Lady Queen," Arabella corrected, but she was too happy for her rejoinder to have any of its usual bite to it. She leaned down and took the keys from his hand.

"Thank you, brother. I'll not forget the service you have done me today," she said breathlessly, before spinning her mount in such a tight circle that he had to scramble to his feet to avoid being trampled by the skidding hooves.

She held the keys aloft, as Alexander had done, so that her army could see.

"Edinburgh is ours!" she roared.

A raucous shout went up in return. Arabella whirled her horse about again. Alexander scrambled into his saddle. Reaching out, he caught her hand in a breach of protocol she only allowed because of the magnitude of their shared triumph.

"We hold the capital," he breathed, "Sister, we hold the capital."

"I know!" she laughed back, suddenly seeming very young as her eyes lit with triumph.

Hand in hand, the siblings cantered into the city, drunk on their own power.


	9. Chapter 9

"Arabella has done _what?!"_ David gasped, almost striking the table with his fist in a reflex action of fury, before reining in his ire and contenting himself with a fierce, stifled oath. He was Prince Consort of Albion now, he had to prove he could control his passionate, warlike tendencies better than other men.

Despite his best efforts, however, the herald before him still trembled and stuttered as she curtsied and repeated her most unwelcome message.

"The Lady Arabella has – has taken Edinburgh, Your Grace."

"How in _Heaven's name_ did she manage that?! Edinburgh was always loyal to my parents, to my father especially. Stirling, I could just about understand; the burgesses there knew Arabella as a little girl and could therefore be expected to show her some loyalty, but Edinburgh? Given how loyal they have always been to my Lord Father and Lady Mother, I would have expected the citizens of Scotland's own capital to acknowledge Rachel as their Queen without a moment's hesitation."

David exhaled in irritation, running a hand through his close-cropped auburn hair, "I wonder that they do not."

Lady Fleming, David's Secretary, bit the inside of her cheek. Her master and his wife had both believed since childhood that it was their God-given right and duty to rule over a united Albion. How was she supposed to counter that in a single conversation, if only to try to lay bare their opponents' motives?

Several seconds passed before she ventured anything at all, "Begging your pardon, Sire," she murmured at last, "I don't believe the matter is as simple as Your Grace thinks it is. It is true that Your Grace's father adopted Queen Rachel, but it is equally true that the Lady Arabella is His Majesty's first true-born daughter. There are those who see it as unjust that Her Highness was robbed of what would otherwise have been her birth right before she was even born. Further, there are those who would wish to see Scotland independent of England, whatever the cost, and see crowning Your Highness's younger sister as a way to achieving that end. Prince Alexander and Mistress Drummond are said to have used the current of disaffection to their advantage. According to our spies, Mistress Drummond swore before all the Saints that His Majesty often spoke to her of his regret that a Stewart would no longer sit on the throne of Scotland after his death and that, if he had outlived Queen Anne, as indeed he did, His Majesty King James would have sought to revoke his adoption of Queen Rachel and invest the Succession instead in the Princess Arabella and her heirs female. Moreover, she is said to have repeated her oath – in front of the Stone of Destiny no less."

"But that's preposterous!" David burst out, spluttering almost incoherently in his rage, "No one who knew my father even a little would lend such a claim the slightest credence. My father made no secret of the fact that he was delighted to know that the united Albion he and Mama had always dreamed of would survive them. Heavens above, the fuss he made over Princess Elizabeth's baptism alone should have proved that beyond all doubt!"

"I don't doubt that in the slightest, Your Highness," Lady Fleming soothed, "However," she went on, before David could respond, "It may be that Your Grace's father never saw the need to make his desires public. It is possible that, although Your Highness and Her Majesty Queen Rachel feel you know what the late King would have wanted, His Majesty never verbalised such a wish, at least not in a way that filtered down to the burgesses and up into the Highlands. In the eyes of those people, therefore, the claims that are being made on Lady Arabella's behalf are strong enough to merit support."

Lady Fleming paused to let that sink in, before spreading her hands and sinking into a half-curtsy, "And at the end of the day, Sire, isn't the truly important thing, the true challenge to your wife's authority as Queen of Albion, not what we believe His Majesty King James would decree if he were here, but what Prince Alexander has managed to make the people of Edinburgh believe? Unpleasant as they are, the facts remain: His Highness persuaded Edinburgh's Mayoress and Alderwomen that it was their matriotic duty to throw the city's gates open to the Lady Arabella and to render her cause such support as they can muster." Lady Fleming blew out her cheeks as she finished.

Too incensed to stay still, David leapt to his feet and began pacing the room, thinking furiously. His quick, determined strides ate up the ground beneath him as he strode in rapid circles. Suddenly, he froze, nodding to himself as an idea began to crystalise in his mind.

"Send word to Dunfermline," he ordered, "This challenge to my wife's rights cannot be allowed to stand."

* * *

"The Abbot of Syon to see you, Madam."

Rachel hardly heard the announcement, she was so distracted. She waved a hand absently and it was only when she looked up from her papers to see George standing before her in his riding cloak that she caught her breath and straightened.

"George, how good it is to see you! What brings you here?"

She raised him from his bow and kissed his cheek, smiling against him even as he stepped back and fixed her with a surprisingly inscrutable look.

"My Lady," he began. She cut him off, raising a hand.

"Sister," she reminded him gently, "I was your sister long before I was your Queen."

"Sister, then," George chuckled softly, "I have come to ask your permission to go north to Scotland to try to treat with our wayward sister, the Lady Arabella."

Rachel couldn't help it. Her eyebrows arched, just a fraction.

"You think you can get her to see reason?"

George shrugged, "I can try. In fact, I think it would only behove me to do so. After all, no one can deny I am supremely placed to understand both the personal and spiritual effects of what could happen if she continues to persist with such an outrageous claim. I assume from your question that I have your permission to go?"

"Of course."

Rachel would never admit it to anyone, but it felt as though a weight had fallen from her shoulders at George's words. He was right, his being both a member of their family and of the clergy would lend his words a weight that no one else's could ever hope to muster. He might be no more than an Abbot, but in many ways, he, not the Abbess of Canterbury, was the strongest figure in the country's Church. Faced with his implacable reason, Arabella would soon come to see that Margaret and Alexander had been lying to her all along; that Papa had never intended to disinherit Rachel to make her Queen of Scotland. She'd realise how foolish she'd been to let her aunt and brother make her into their figurehead, and she would come to London and seek to make her peace with Rachel.

For a moment, Rachel forgot George was there as she was swept away by the shimmering image that rose in her mind's eye, a picture of what it would be like the day Arabella sought her pardon.

 _Arabella would be wearing dove-grey, a colour eminently suitable to her role as a penitent. Her hair would be modestly bound beneath a linen coif. She herself would be in regal purple, her dark hair woven with glittering diamonds. She'd have Beth in her arms. The little girl would be wearing a half-size circlet, modelled on the one that had been hers as Crown Princess of Albion. Together, they'd symbolise the future – a future Arabella had squandered her place in by joining Margaret and Alexander in rebellion and would only regain by submitting herself to Rachel's mercy._

 _The heralds would blow their trumpets and Arabella would advance on the dais, curtsying deeply three times as she did so._

 _She'd fall to her knees and weep, begging Rachel to forgive her for her folly in allowing Margaret and Alexander to lead her astray._

"Sister?" George's voice broke into her daydream and she had to remember herself very quickly to keep from scowling at him for ruining such a glittering image.

"Yes?"

"May I ask… If I do manage to make our sister see reason, what Your Grace intends to do with her?"

The pause between his words and hers stretched for a beat too long, pregnant with anticipation.

"Arabella will be forgiven," she said at last, "Bella is so young and burning for some power of her own, it's no wonder Alexander and Margaret have managed to lead her astray. Alexander and Mistress Drummond will have to pay the price for their treason, of course, but I don't see why Bella can't be brought back into the fold. As long as she bends the knee to myself and Beth, I'd be perfectly happy to welcome her home."

George knew he should be happy to hear Rachel promising to be so magnanimous towards their sister, who, after all, was an out-and-out rebel, one who had captured the greatest city in Scotland. Despite himself, however, George couldn't help but wonder…would it work? Arabella was such a proud little thing, who was to say she'd accept her proffered pardon, even on terms as generous as these?

"Bella has her pride," he warned, "I'm not convinced she'd want to bend the knee without getting something in return for it."

"Oh, I know," Rachel said confidently, "I have no intention of leaving Bella with nothing. If she swears her loyalty to Beth and myself, I'll have her invested as Duchess of Gloucester and Ross, as I know Mama and Papa would have wanted. Who knows, if she proves herself to have learnt from her youthful errors, I may even allow myself to be persuaded to grant her the title of Lady of Ireland and allow her to rule it as a Palatine one day."

Rachel paused, and laughed lightly, although it had a note of effort about it, "How could Bella ever refuse such an offer? I'm suggesting I give her almost as much power as either Mama or Papa had at her age. Certainly more than Aunt Mary ever had, and she was a second daughter, too."

George flinched before he could stop himself. He loved Rachel, but sometimes she could be so blind. If Arabella could have contented herself with the limited power of a second daughter of a ruling house, she would never have let herself get caught up in Margaret and Alexander's schemes in the first place.

But it wasn't his place to say so. Not now, not when they were in no position to even begin considering bargaining terms.

As such, he simply murmured something noncommittal, sketched Rachel another bow and made to back out of the room before she could prevent him.

* * *

"Your Grace will come North, of course?" George pressed, as he stretched his cramped legs out before the fire in the Abbess of Durham's private chambers.

"Of course, my son, you need have no fear of that. I've known you since you were a boy of twelve. I've never known you dissemble about something you feel is this important. If you truly feel that my presence in Dunfermline can help, then make no mistake, I shall ride with you."

"Thank you, Your Grace. It gladdens my heart to hear you say that, truly. Their Ladyships of Chester and York are meeting us at the border as well, then I hope to persuade the Abbesses of Dunkeld and Moray to join us as we ride for Dunfermline."

"We'll be a glittering company," the Abbess commented, as she took a draught of wine, "Are you sure we need to be gathered in such numbers?"

George nodded fervently, "It grieves me to say so, My Lady, but I fear we do. My sister Arabella has ever been impulsive. Given what is soon to happen, I can only hope that being surrounded by such august company will restrain her hand enough for me to at least attempt to dissuade her from doing anything she is bound to later regret for the rest of her life."

He sipped at the hippocras he held and then exhaled, "At the very least, having so many Abbesses in Dunfermline ought to keep anyone from doubting the veracity of the document, from suggesting it has been tampered with before it was read out to the public."


	10. Chapter 10

The sun was barely peeking above the horizon when Margaret knocked on the door of Arabella's bedchamber, before letting herself in with a quick curtsy. Despite the early hour, however, the younger woman was already awake, her grey eyes sparkling.

"Good morning, My Lady Queen," Margaret smiled, "You look happy this morning, if I might be so bold."

"Oh, Aunt Margaret, how can I not be?" The young woman swung her legs out from under the eiderdown, padding over to a stool in front of a large, ornate looking glass, before turning her back for her aunt to loosen her hair and braid it up again, "With Her Grace of Dunfermline set to declare in my favour today, how can I not be awash with delight?"

"Madam…Are you quite sure that the verdict will go in your favour?"

Margaret hated to burst her niece's bubble, but she felt she had to warn Arabella. She seemed to be so convinced that the meeting at Dunfermline Abbey would go her way…

Arabella tossed her head before Margaret could continue, sniffing dismissively.

"Of course it will, Aunt Margaret. How can you even begin to think anything else? The Abbess promised to release the terms of my father's will so soon after I wrote to her to ask for her support. Of course she's going to declare in my favour."

Arabella's tone brooked no argument. Margaret took a deep breath and steeled herself to nod.

"Very well. We'd better dress you in your finest, then, hadn't we? We can't have the Queen of Scotland looking any less than her best on such an important day, can we now?"

Arabella smirked and nodded, settling herself more comfortably on her stool as her aunt went to the door and summoned an army of handmaidens to come and work their magic.

Half an hour later, she rose to her feet, a vision in violet silk and silver velvet. There was a discreet amount of colour rubbed into her usually pale cheeks and her hair was woven into a half braid, before the remainder of its length was left free to tumble to her waist out of her silver, amethyst-encrusted hood.

The style suited her and she knew it. "Perfect," she breathed, her lips quirking up into a self-satisfied smile. No one who saw her would dare suggest she didn't deserve the throne of Scotland, not when she looked this young and strong and radiant.

Spinning away from the mirror, she raised a hand. Her ladies formed up around her without a word.

She jerked her head at Margaret. Her aunt flung the bedchamber's door wide for her, then curtsied and fell back to take her place at the head of Arabella's ladies. Arabella's lips twitched and she swept into the corridor without a backward glance.

* * *

"Let me speak to her! Let me warn her!"

George stood with the Abbess of Durham, pleading with her in an undertone. As he spoke, he shot Arabella an alarmed look from beneath his eyelids, which were half-closed against the sun.

His little sister had arrived in the courtyard of Dunfermline Abbey in a blaze of fanfare, great echoing trumpet blasts heralding her arrival a full five, even ten, minutes before she cantered into sight on her elegant grey palfrey, her chosen device of a golden unicorn snapping in the breeze above her head. She had yet to dismount, as if she felt that remaining in her vantage point in the saddle, from which she could look down on everyone and force them to look up at her, garnered her some sort of control over the situation.

To outsiders, she might seem perfectly poised, but not to George.

"Please, Your Grace! We both know how much is riding on this for Arabella. And God bless her, but she's impulsive. I fear that if she isn't warned…"

"I said no, Your Highness!" The Abbess cut him off, tone just this side of being too acidic to be polite, "The reading of His Majesty's will must be seen to be unviolated. I cannot allow Your Highness to so much as dream of leaking the terms, even at this late stage. Especially not to one of the main players in this budding conflict."

George opened his mouth to argue, but then saw the sense in his superior's words. He sighed and subsided.

Seeing the fight had gone out of him, the Abbess of Durham softened fractionally.

"I am sorry," she said quietly, so that only he could hear, "I know you mean well. But think on this. How would you explain to the Lady Arabella that you know what her father's will says and she does not?"

Before George could formulate a response to that, the Abbey bells rang out, once, twice, summoning them all to take their places for the reading of the will. The Abbess swept into the church in an immediate rustle of satin. George hesitated just long enough to see Arabella slide to the ground and be sure that she would follow before he turned and did the same, heart in his mouth.

* * *

Arabella's heart was thudding in her ears, so loud it drowned out all else. Not that that mattered. She'd heard all she needed to hear.

Her throat was dry and the sweet taste of anticipated triumph had turned to ash in her mouth.

There was only one thought in her mind: Papa didn't care. He'd never cared. Never!

Now that it was all over, Arabella could admit, even if only to herself, that she'd never truly expected Papa's will to vindicate her cause. She'd pretended she had, because she had to brazen her actions out, but, in her heart of hearts, she'd known Papa would choose Rachel to succeed him as Queen of Scotland. He was too stubborn a man not to, after all the years he'd spent pushing her claim at the expense of Arabella's own.

But she had expected him to make it up to her in other ways, at least. She _might_ have swallowed her pride and followed the hem of Rachel's gown, as she'd always done as a child, if Papa had showered her in lands of her own, given her an income befitting her status as a Princess of Scotland, of Albion. But he hadn't. He hadn't!

Oh, he'd asked Mama – and Rachel, if Mama predeceased him - to ensure that Arabella's marriage to Lord Charles of Portugal went ahead, if it hadn't been finalised already, and set 8000 crowns aside to help finance her household as a married woman, but aside from that? Nothing? Nothing aside from a few meaningless trinkets.

He hadn't even given her an estate of her own. Instead, he'd asked only that Rachel make whatever provision she deemed fit for Arabella. Indeed, he'd placed caveats on even that, stating that, if he predeceased their mother, Arabella was not to be given the title of Lady of the Isles, for he wished that title to be bestowed upon "my most dearly-beloved granddaughter, the Princess Elizabeth, Duchess of Carnarvon, in recognition that the succession of a united Albion is to be forever bestowed upon her and her heiresses."

Rage boiled in Arabella's veins. How dare Papa dismiss her like this? How _dare_ he? She'd make a far better Queen of Scotland than Rachel ever would, even with David at her side. Everyone knew that. Arabella had been born and raised within its borders, unlike her Sassenach of a sister.

Tears started in her eyes and she swiped them away angrily. She'd been humiliated enough without the shame of crying in public as well.

Suddenly, as though a light had been switched on, her rage crystallised into a single cool thought, and she knew what she had to do. Papa didn't care for her, did he not? Well then, she'd be damned if she'd care for his last wishes either!

Arabella whirled on her heel and stalked from the Abbey, ignoring the scandalised whispers she left in her wake.

* * *

George saw Arabella storm from the gathering from his place of honour. As she shoved past him, he realised her eyes were both steely and bright with tears. Instinctively, he murmured his apologies to his neighbours and rushed after her, his feet carrying him smoothly from the Abbey before he'd even had time to formulate a coherent thought.

His longer strides enabled him to catch up to her easily, hampered as she was by her ceremonial skirts.

He caught hold of her shoulder, "Bella, wait!"

She flinched from his touch and whirled around to face him.

"What do you want?" she spat, her tone accusatory, defensive.

George sprang back to give her space, throwing his hands up in surrender.

"Nothing! I just… I'm sorry. I wanted to say I'm sorry."

"No, you're not! Don't pretend you are."

Arabella's voice was hard, but beneath the snarl, tears were threatening, George could see it. And no wonder. Arabella was so young, barely fourteen. He couldn't imagine what it must have been like for her, sitting in the Abbey church in full view of everyone as it was made publicly clear that her own father thought so little about her that he was willing to leave it to her older sister to care for her welfare rather than make provision for her himself.

Slowly, careful not to startle her, he lowered his hands and reached out to touch hers, feeling her quiver beneath him.

"I'm not sorry Papa didn't vindicate your cause," he admitted, "But I am sorry you had to find out like that. I wouldn't have had you do that for the world. I begged Her Grace of Durham to let me tell you in private, or at least to let me warn you so that you could surrender with some dignity, but she -"

"You knew, didn't you?!" Arabella flung herself back from him, eyes aflame, "You knew Papa had left everything to Rachel, David and Beth! You _knew_!"

In the face of her accusation, George felt there was no point in lying.

"Yes, I knew," he said gently, "Papa allowed me to witness his will when he wrote it last summer. But Bella, I know this hurts, and I know it seems unfair, but -"

"Oh, you know, do you? You know what it's like to sit in that crowd and realise your own father has left you nothing?! Nothing!"

"8000 crowns is hardly…"

"You heard the will, George! That's for my household if and when I marry! I won't see a penny of it until then, and I'll have to go, cap in hand, to Rachel for anything else I want. To Rachel, of all people! Papa knew how much I'd hate that! He knew and he didn't care! He didn't care!"

"Rachel's hardly going to leave you impoverished. If nothing else, it would demean you as her sister. Why, she told me herself that she plans to invest you as Duchess of Gloucester and Ross as soon as you swear your loyalty to her."

"I shouldn't have to! Those titles should be mine by right! _Scotland_ should be mine by right!"

Furious tears were flooding down Arabella's cheeks. Half-blind, she fumbled the reins of her horse where it was tied outside the abbey, too upset to care that she was demeaning herself by not waiting for a groom to do it for her. All she wanted to do was get away as quickly as possible.

Despite everything, George's heart went out to her. He grasped her by the waist and hoisted her into the saddle.

"For what it's worth, Bella, I truly am sorry," he murmured, as he let her go.

Arabella glared down at him.

"You don't get to apologise," she hissed, "Not when our parents made sure to provide for you – for all of you – but not for me."

She wrenched her horse's head around and galloped away before George could do more than gape at her, stunned into silence by the realisation of just how bitter she was.

* * *

"Get word to the men. I want them all ready to march at daybreak."

Arabella strode through the circular chamber, her skirts swishing around her, issuing orders as she went. Her blonde hair bounced on her back, falling into her eyes, but, although she pushed it back impatiently, she refused the hood a maid tentatively offered her. It was a point of pride with Arabella never to wear her hair bound if she could help it. It made up for all those years her parents and governesses had insisted she wear her hair up while Rachel's tumbled down her back in an ebony waterfall to signify her royal status.

Alexander bowed, "Of course, My Lady Queen. It shall be done."

He signed to a page, who nodded and scurried out of the room. It was Margaret, however, who dared brave Arabella's wrath to ask what they were all thinking.

"May I ask why we're riding south? Since we're taking an army, I assume it is not to come to terms with Your Majesty's sister?"

Arabella scoffed, "No, Aunt Margaret, it is not. Quite the opposite. We all know Rachel has summoned her little girl to London to invest her as Crown Princess of Albion. It is my intention to ensure that little Elizabeth never gets there."

Silence reigned for a beat or two as the full import of her words sank in.

Alexander swore bitterly.

"You want to kidnap the Duchess of Carnarvon?"

"Why not?! Why not! Rachel stole everything from me before I was even born! Why shouldn't I hit her where it hurts? Why shouldn't I steal what means most in the world to her?"

It took all of Alexander's self-control not to shake his younger sister. "Bella, are you mad?!" he snapped, "This is not about personal revenge! We have to be above that and play the long game. Strike too hot, too early, and we could lose everything! If we kidnapped Princess Elizabeth, we'd kill our cause before it's even grown out of its cradle!"

"Would we? Would we, really? Or would I prove myself adept at the strategems of war; prove myself the warrior Queen Rachel can never hope to be?" Arabella let her eyes trail over each of the others in the room before coming to rest, once more, on Alexander.

"Sister, I am begging you not to do this," he breathed, but she shook her head, eyes burning.

"Papa taught you war, Alexander," she whispered, as though they were the only two in the room, "He taught you to always gamble when you had to. Papa's will is already a blow to our cause. The men will bleed away as soon as it becomes common knowledge, and you know that. How much more support will we lose if we don't react decisively? Don't you see? We _need_ to stop the Princess Elizabeth from reaching London. We _need_ to hold my sister's only daughter in our hands to use as our pawn. It's the only way I'll ever be able to force Rachel to take me seriously now."

Horror filled every heart in the room. Arabella wasn't serious, surely? The Princess Elizabeth was an innocent child, beloved by many on both sides of the border. Kidnapping her would no doubt drive many of those nobles that had yet to declare for either Howard sister flocking to Rachel's banners, should she choose to raise them. And raise them she would, if she thought her only child was at risk. Hell's flames were as cold as the first snows of winter compared to a mother defending her young. Everyone knew that.

Heedless to the stunned silence she had just precipitated, Arabella carried on talking, outlining the plan she had spent most of the time since she had fled Dunfermline Abbey in high dudgeon formulating.

"We'll ride out as early as possible tomorrow and march all night if we have to. I mean to intercept the little Princess's household if it's the last thing I do."

Arabella swept from the room before any of her councillors could formulate an even halfway coherent response. All that was left for them to do was stare after her in shock.

She wasn't serious, was she? Trying to seize control of the little Duchess of Carnarvon was far too large a gamble for this stage of the game. It could cost them everything. Everything. Her Majesty must know that, surely? Surely?

Eventually, Margaret voiced what every one of them was thinking, "If Arabella holds to this, then may the Lord have mercy on us."


	11. Chapter 11

Arabella was catching them up. Staring absently out of a window of Broughton Castle, Bessie knew Arabella was catching them up, and despite herself, the realisation sent shivers down her spine.

Oh, Bessie knew she'd done all that could be asked of her and more – knew she'd picked up the pace as much as she could with a sickly infant in tow the moment she'd heard the rumours that her younger cousin, incensed by the terms of the late King James's will, was determined to waylay them and hold the little Princess ransom to her demands for power – but that didn't stop her being filled with dread now.

Her efforts to deliver the infant Princess safely to her mother's protection in London had been thwarted by the little one catching a fierce summer ague that had left her shivering and wheezing and in no condition to travel. They'd had no choice but to seek shelter at the first dwelling they came across that was large enough to house them all. That had happened to be Broughton Castle, the Fiennes family home, a building whose crenellations looked impressive enough from a distance, but which Bessie feared would never prove a real match for any serious challenger. And given the speed Arabella was said to be marching south at, she was definitely serious.

"My Lady?"

Drawn from her musings by the uncertain voice, Bessie turned and forced herself to smile at Margery, Lady Fiennes' young daughter, who had attached herself to Bessie the very day she'd set foot inside Broughton's walls.

At first, Bessie had found an odd sort of charm in the young girl's obvious admiration for her, for Margery was about the same age as her own eldest daughter. Besides, being the only daughter of the house, with several brothers much younger than she was, Margery was obviously lonely and starved for a woman's companionship, especially given how busy the lands and the nursery kept her mother. Bessie had pitied her and thought nothing of letting her tail after her if she wished, especially once the young girl had endeared herself to Lady Stanley and Lady Erskine by doting on Princess Elizabeth.

Unfortunately, after several days, the charm of Margery faithfully dogging her every move was wearing sadly thin. Matters weren't helped by the fact that Margery was a timid child, hardly likely to say boo to a goose. Bessie was rapidly tiring of having to temper her every thought, word and deed lest the silly chit took fright at something. Yet she didn't have the heart to shoo her away either.

As such, she had no choice but to answer the uncertain query.

"I'm all right, Margery, honestly." As she spoke, Bessie consciously eased her shoulders, so as not to belie her words, "I'm just wondering what we should do next. I might go and have a few words with Lady Stanley. I need to check on the Princess's health. The sooner Her Highness is fit to move on to London, the better."

"I could go for you, My Lady!" Margery offered eagerly. Bessie bit the inside of her cheek to keep from showing her irritation at the girl's slavish behaviour.

"No, thank you, Margery. That's very kind of you, but the walk through the halls will do me good."

So saying, Bessie stood up. Margery immediately bobbed a curtsy and made to fall into step behind her as she passed.

The instinctive action made Bessie's hackles rise. Surely Margery had better things to do than tail after her?

She thought quickly.

"Actually, Margery, it's lovely of you to want to accompany me. I know how fond you are of the Princess. But I have a task for you. Do you think you could run down to the stables for me and tell one of the lads to get ready to ride for London this afternoon? I'll need to send a message to Queen Rachel once I've spoken to Lady Stanley."

Margery flushed with pleasure at being given a task, even one as trivial as this.

"Of course, Lady Lancaster! I'll do it at once!"

Her fair head dropped briefly as she sketched another curtsy. Then she picked up her skirts and ran in the opposite direction, her footsteps echoing down the wooden-panelled passageway.

Breathing a sigh of relief the moment the girl was out of earshot, Bessie swept off to the east wing, where the ailing Princess lay in her commandeered bedchamber.

No sooner had Bessie's shadow darkened the doorway of said room, however, than Lady Stanley rushed over to her, clucking furiously and shaking her head.

"For heaven's sake, Your Grace! If Mistress Sowerby has told you once, then she's told you a thousand times. Her Highness is not yet fit to travel. The hot poultices are helping, but the poor mite is still wheezing and coughing fit to burst. She won't heal any faster for Your Grace pacing and fussing like an old maid."

"No," Bessie admitted, before her nerves got the better of her and she snapped.

"You do understand, Lady Stanley, that the Lady Arabella is gaining on us with every minute we tarry here? Her Majesty would not want her only daughter to end up hostage to an avowed traitor."

"I don't doubt it, Lady Lancaster, but I'm equally certain that Her Majesty would not want her daughter to end up a corpse either," Lady Stanley snarled, jaw clenching. Taken aback by her ferocity, Bessie stepped back an inch or two. Seeing it, the other woman softened, but only marginally.

"I understand your concern, Lady Lancaster, but trust me. For the sake of Her Highness's health, we simply must stay put."

For a moment, the two women glowered at one another, at a silent impasse.

Bessie was the one to yield, turning on her heel with an audible swish of brocade.

"Very well. As you say. I'll write to London. Perhaps Queen Rachel will send us some men-at-arms to protect the Princess while she recuperates. They can escort us to London when Her Highness is ready."

Bessie was halfway down the passageway when Lady Stanley, still framed in the doorway, spoke again.

"Do you really believe that necessary, Your Grace? Do you really think the Lady Arabella would go so far as to try to kidnap her own niece?"

Bessie hesitated. Several seconds passed before she spoke. When she did, her voice was heavy.

"I wish I didn't think she might, Lady Stanley. If you'd asked me that question even so much as a month ago, I'd have scorned the idea. But, little as I like it, the Lady Arabella is a rebel riding in defiance of her true Queen. Princess Elizabeth is the most precious child in all of Albion. Let's not take any chances with what Her Highness's aunt will or will not do."

* * *

Bessie came awake at once, starting at the hand on her shoulder.

She blinked blearily at the maid who bent over her, a flickering candle in her other hand. Judging by the depth of the shadows in the corners of the room, it could barely be past sunrise. If it was even that late.

"Forgive the unholy hour, My Lady, but Sir John felt you ought to be told immediately. A host came up overnight. We're surrounded."

The urgency in the young woman's voice stirred Bessie into action. Almost without coherent thought, she swung herself out of bed, holding out an imperious hand for her wrap as she did so.

She ran up to the battlements to see for herself, praying that she would see the Howard Griffin fluttering above the men-at-arms, but knowing, somehow, even as she ran, that she wouldn't be that lucky.

Bursting out on to the walkway behind the crenellations, she looked down at precisely the same instant as a ray of sunshine broke through the dawn mist, illuminating the bristling army below.

Above their heads flew a rearing golden unicorn.

Bessie cursed.


End file.
